Getting Closer
by SeveRemus
Summary: Reese has found himself rapidly developing feelings for his mysterious employer, and takes advantage of a rare day off to pursue Finch in a more physical way. Somewhat AU due to recent developments. Rated M for a reason! SOME CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN DELETED DUE TO CONTENT. PLEASE READ AT MY NEW WEBSITE.
1. Vacation

Getting Closer

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><p>AN: My version of Rinch (Reese X Finch). Because I simply can't help myself. Post Episode 8. Oh, and now we know (post Episode 11) that Mr. Burdett's first name is Norman, but I can't change all the "Harold"s now... so it's a bit AU.

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><p>Reese walked into the library with coffee for himself and green tea for Finch, only to find his employer asleep (and not for the first time) in his chair, his head fallen on the desk out of sheer exhaustion. He set the cup of tea down quietly so as to not disturb him and stepped soundlessly to the window where he leant against the sill, sipping his coffee. His gaze wandered from the dilapidated scene outside of the window to Finch's face, smushed as it was against the surface of the desk. A slow smile crept at the corners of his mouth as he watched the other man sleep. So peaceful. So vulnerable. Reese had felt himself growing increasingly protective of his benefactor, colleague, and (he hoped) friend, though he had not yet decided whether that was a good or a bad thing.<p>

_Only time will tell_, he thought stoically.

He knew that Finch was not expecting him, having given him the day off to rest and recuperate from his ordeal with the old spy. The torture methods the man had used on Reese had been archaic, but effective nonetheless. However, Reese had endured worse and survived – not only survived, but succeeded in not divulging any of the information his captors had wanted. That was what he had been trained to do, of course, although Reese suspected that his success had been due in large part to a trait of which he had been accused as a teenager: sheer cussedness. It was as good a reason as any, as long as it kept him alive.

Finch stirred, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. Reese decided that he had been in that uncomfortable position for long enough.

"Finch. Wake up, Finch."

The man groaned as he tried to straighten himself and sit up in the chair. Then, as he reached for his glasses and became aware of his surroundings, he squinted at Reese in surprise.

"Mr. Reese. I thought I had given you the day off."

"You did. I decided to check in anyway, in case you'd gotten a new number."

Adjusting his glasses on his nose, Finch peered into the ever-changing monitor.

"No... or rather, if there had been, it was deleted at midnight. I wasn't keeping tabs on it, since I assumed that you wouldn't be available." He turned his piercing gaze back to Reese. "You really should be resting, you know. Running yourself ragged won't do you any favors, and in the long run, it won't help the people who may need to depend on your skills for their lives."

"Falling asleep at the computer won't do _you_ any favors, either," Reese smoothly deflected. "That can't be good for your neck." He approached the desk and set his coffee down, at once shifting Finch's attention to the cup of tea that he had brought and distracting him from what he was about to do. "So tell me... if you weren't keeping tabs on what the Machine was spitting out, what _were_ you doing on the computer all night?"

"Research," Finch replied, but something about the terse manner in which he spoke told Reese that he was uncomfortable discussing it in detail. "There were some... other matters that I wished to investigate."

Reese had walked behind Finch to remove his suit coat, hanging it up on the antique hat rack in the corner, but he saw Finch hurriedly close a few of the windows on his monitor. Even at that distance, though, he caught a glimpse of human musculature with a row of needles bristling out at key points.

"Acupuncture?" he said with sardonic amusement. "Are you considering taking up Eastern medicine as your new cover?"

Finch swallowed, realizing that he had been found out and would have to come clean.

"No, Mr. Reese. I was simply curious as to the effects, and after-effects, of severe nerve trauma on the human anatomy and psyche. I wanted to know if there were any treatments that might mitigate the lingering results of such damage."

"Mr. Finch," Reese smiled, approaching his chair from behind, "I'm touched."

"I have come to rely on your skills and expertise, Mr. Reese," Finch blandly replied without removing his eyes from the screen. "I need you to be in top condition on all of our cases."

"And I could say the same to you, Finch," Reese answered, positioning himself behind the other man and placing his hands – gently but firmly – on his shoulders. Finch's already-tense muscles flinched at the touch and bunched up in a defensive reflex. "You need to stop pulling all-nighters when it's not a matter of life and death, and you _really_ need to stop sleeping on the desk like that. I've come to rely on _your_ skills and expertise, too, Finch, and I need you to be in top condition on all of our cases as well. And please, try to relax. You should know by now that I will never hurt you. And I'm very good with my hands."

As he said this, Reese had begun to rub Finch's taut muscles, running his thumbs along the tight cords connecting the base of his neck to his shoulders. His slender fingers were pressing very gently and tentatively above his collarbone, searching out the sore spots by instinct. Finch gasped, his breath hitching in his chest.

"Wh-What are you doing?" he stammered, alarmed.

"Trying to undo all of the bad things you've been doing to yourself," Reese calmly replied, his hands never ceasing their movements. They had now slid down to span Finch's angel bones, probing for the pressure points hidden there. "Take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Trust me, Finch – this will do you more good than pills. Just... breathe."

Hesitantly, Finch drew in a breath, releasing it in a long, drawn-out sigh.

"That's right, nice and easy... Breathe in... breathe out... in... and out..."

Allowing himself to fall into the pace of Reese's coaching, Finch also tried to relax his shoulders, but that was easier said than done. By the time he had released all of the tension he could control, Reese's hands had traveled down his back (down to his belt) and up, pushing lightly at each pressure point on either side of his spine. As Reese rubbed the top of his shoulders again, Finch could not help tensing up – it was an inevitable reflex ever since his injury. He simply wasn't comfortable with being touched so near it.

"Do you trust me, Finch?" Reese's soft voice fell from somewhere above him.

Finch pursed his lips for a brief moment before answering, "Yes. But you have to understand—"

"I can tell where they had to fuse your spine. I promise, I won't hurt you there," Reese assured him. "What I'll be working on is your muscle tissue. I'm afraid it _will_ hurt, but it will feel better afterwards. Do you believe me?"

"Yes." This time there was no hesitation.

"All right. Lean into it as much as you can, and don't forget to breathe."

Almost immediately, Reese's thumbs found two sore spots and dug into them. Finch gasped in pain, but there was no escaping the other man's strong grip.

"Breathe, Finch, breathe," Reese urged, not relenting. "Feel the pain—embrace it. Then expel it with your breath."

Slowly, awkwardly, Finch managed to draw one breath, then another. He felt the pain subside as though it really were being expelled with his breaths, until it became a _good_ sort of pain. So good that he actually leaned against Reese's iron-like thumbs, pressing them even further into those sore spots, letting them dig out the pain and turn it into heat. His last breath was a sigh of relief.

"Good. Now we just need to do that for all of them," Reese said, rubbing those spots in small, circular motions, allowing the last vestiges of pain and heat to dissipate.

Finch found himself panting, and was surprised to discover that it _had_ been an effort – even though he had barely moved, it felt as though he had been holding up a tremendous weight, using not only the muscles directly involved but his entire body.

"Is this... something you learned... at the Agency?" he asked through ragged breaths, more to put off the next ordeal than to find out the answer.

Reese grinned as he replied, "Not exactly. On one of my assignments, I was fortunate enough to meet a Japanese expatriate who was a master of _aikidoh_ – a martial art that studies how the human body works, to exploit its strengths and weaknesses in combat. But he wouldn't teach me the techniques for taking life alone; it had to be paired with the knowledge of giving life and promoting health, he said, for it to be truly effective. I've been grateful for that knowledge on more than one occasion."

"I suppose... I ought to be grateful... that he taught you so well, also," Finch managed. "But right now, I'm not sure I have the... stamina... to go through with this."

"Drink your tea," Reese advised, "while I go get us some breakfast. You're right that it takes stamina to get through an acupressure treatment. But I know from experience that it's worth it."

Finch nodded and stood up, noting that in the same amount of time Reese had thrown on his suit coat, quaffed the last of his coffee, and crossed the room to the door. He had paused there, however, and stood looking back at Finch thoughtfully.

"You know, Finch," he began, then stopped, uncharacteristically irresolute.

"Yes?"

"Since there's no new number for today, perhaps we should both take a vacation."

"I thought I had already given you the day off, Mr. Reese."

"I know. But I had something more... different... in mind..."

"'Different'?"

Reese hesitated once again before elaborating.

"Call it a... company-wide spa retreat," he finally managed, with a sidelong smile.

"A... what?" Finch said, flabbergasted.

"A spa retreat," Reese repeated. "See if you can get us reservations at some uptown, upscale hotel – one that has a pool and a Jacuzzi. Preferably in the suite itself."

Seeing that Finch was still staring at him, open-mouthed, Reese wryly added, "With as tense as your knots are, you could stand to soak in a Jacuzzi for a few hours. For that matter, so could I. You _have_ heard of Jacuzzis, haven't you?"

"I believe so, yes," was Finch's dry reply. "Would you care for anything else?"

"Well, I suppose we'll need swimming trunks," he responded, "unless you happen to have a spare pair that I could borrow?"

"I don't own any swimming trunks, Mr. Reese."

"Well, then, we can stop by Macy's on our way. I'm sure they must have a few Speedos in stock, even in the off season."

With that comment and a sultry smile, Reese exited the library, leaving Finch to wrestle with the mental image of the two of them wearing Speedos in a Jacuzzi.


	2. Shopping

Getting Closer

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><p>They ended up <em>not<em> getting Speedos, much to Finch's relief, since there was a respectable array of boxer-type swimming trunks at the store. However, before they could leave, Reese insisted that they needed to buy pajamas as well.

"We could buy the hotel's," Finch protested, all-too-aware of the store cameras monitoring them.

"Yes, but then people might think you'd _stolen_ them," was Reese's glib reply.

"_What_ people, Mr. Reese?"

Reese smirked and ignored the question.

"If you're tired of shopping, I'll be happy to pick something out for you. Do you prefer tiger-stripes or leopard-prints?"

Begrudgingly, Finch trailed after him to the men's sleepwear department, where Reese found a display of silk pajamas.

"Wonderful... feel this, Finch – it won't even seem like you're wearing anything."

"Fine. Let's just get what we need and go."

"But what color do you want, Finch? Personally, I think you'd look great in this chocolate brown, but if you'd rather have the forest green or midnight blue—"

"Mr. Reese, I don't care. Nobody is going to see me wearing them, and it hardly matters what color I'm wearing in the dark."

"Finch, _I'm_ going to see you wearing them," Reese replied, looking affronted. "But since you have no preference, and I'm the one who'll have to look at you, I choose brown. I think you'll look... simply _scrumptious_ in them."

With a cold sense of dread, Finch realized that there was a sales attendant approaching them, just within earshot. He also knew with certainty that Reese was well aware of the sales clerk's presence and had deliberately vamped that last bit for his benefit. Feeling a flush creep up his neck, Finch was ready to turn and run – or at least take off at a fast pace – back to the library, but Reese had grabbed his elbow, preventing his escape.

"But what color do you think _I_ should get, Harold?" Reese asked, his voice honeyed and cloyingly sweet. "I got to choose yours, so you choose mine."

"You can get whatever color you like, _John_," Finch deadpanned through tight lips, "as I really have no preference."

"Blue, then? Yes. Definitely blue," Reese tittered, checking the tags.

"Can I help you gentlemen find anything?" the clerk broke in, seizing his moment of opportunity.

"Yes! Do you have these in a Tall?" Reese asked, indicating the dark blue pajamas, his soft voice tinged with an effeminate lilt.

"I believe so," the clerk replied, scurrying to the other side of the table. "Tall, Medium?"

"Perfect!"

Reese took the set the clerk had found, releasing his grip on Finch to do so, and picked up the brown set he had chosen earlier. With a slightly defeated sigh, Finch reached for his wallet.

"Oh, no, Harold!" Reese protested. "Let me get this. Consider it an early Christmas present."

The way Reese fluttered his hand at him caught Finch off-guard and left him without words.

"After all, you're paying for the hotel," Reese asserted as he followed the clerk a few steps over to the cash register. "It's the least I can do!"

Finch seriously considered fleeing from this new, unexpected Reese. But it was still _Reese_, after all, who could hunt him down with or without the aid of surveillance cameras. And he would really hate to have to move all of his equipment from the library to a new location. Plus, it was doubtful that he would ever find another man with such perfect qualifications for the job.

_Besides, I __**have**__ already paid for the hotel_, Finch thought dryly to himself as Reese turned to him with a bright smile, holding the shopping bag with their new acquisitions.

* * *

><p>"Would you mind explaining what that was all about?" Finch demanded as levelly as he could once they were out of the men's department. Thankfully, Reese did not even attempt to play dumb.<p>

"We need a cover story, don't we?" he replied, back to his usual self. "Two guys, staying at a hotel? I simply chose the obvious one."

"I see." Finch pondered the situation for a moment before remarking, "I'll have to add that to the rest of your many talents."

"What, being charming?" Reese prodded with a devilish look.

"You may call it that," Finch said tonelessly, refusing to be baited.

"By the way, what name did you make the reservation under?" Reese asked, deciding to switch to business.

"Harold Smith."

"_Smith?_"

"Yes. Why?"

"Just that everyone will _know_ it's an alias. But I suppose it would have to be..."

As Reese let his words trail off with no explanation, Finch finally took the bait.

"Why would it have to be an alias?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're a successful businessman, perhaps a man of some influence and consequence in the world. You're booking a hotel room with another man. Clearly, you're having a clandestine affair – something you don't want your wife and children to find out about. Possibly even your constituents."

They exited the store and Reese stepped to the curb to hail a cab. Once inside, he waited for Finch to give the driver the hotel name before resuming their conversation.

"Of course you wouldn't make the reservation under your _real_ name. Do you have any idea how easily someone could do a search on the internet and find you out? You could be blackmailed, or worse!"

The irony of this statement made Finch's mouth twitch in what almost resembled a smile.

"Is that so? It seems you've spent a fair amount of time considering such things."

"I have, Harold. Everyone ought to, really – it's not like the _government_ is going to protect our privacy, right? By the way, did you get a room with a Jacuzzi?"

Feeling slightly whiplashed by the sudden change in topics, Finch answered, "No. The only rooms with a Jacuzzi in-suite were the honeymoon suites. I reserved us adjacent rooms with a shared living room, but there _is_ a Jacuzzi by the pool."

"Well, for the record, Harold," Reese smiled demurely, placing his hand on the other man's knee, "_I_ wouldn't have minded the honeymoon suite."

Finch's lips parted in surprise. The cab driver could barely speak English, so he knew Reese wasn't putting on the gay act for his benefit. Or was he? Now he was completely confused.

"And here we are," Reese announced as the cab came to an abrupt stop in front of their hotel.

* * *

><p>The suite was luxurious by any standard, with white furniture and walls painted a soothing pale green.<p>

"Oh, good choice," Reese murmured. "Perfect for a spa vacation."

"I'm glad you approve," Finch replied, moving over to the window and peering out to make sure that there were no cameras trained on it.

"Good idea," Reese agreed, and went around the room checking the lamps, phones, clocks, and other nooks and crannies for hidden surveillance devices. "It's clean," was his final assessment.

"It should be, for how much they're charging," Finch commented from deep within one of the plush, overstuffed chairs. That alone was a welcome change from his desk chair. "There should be a menu, somewhere, of the spa services they offer here."

"Harold, Harold, Harold," Reese clucked, returning to the living room and shrugging off his jacket. "What do you need _them_ for when you have _me?_ And I won't even ask for a bonus, I promise!"

"Oh," Finch responded, slightly taken aback. "When you said a spa retreat, I simply assumed—"

"That was very thoughtful of you, but there's no need to spend more money than you have to. Besides, I don't think the type of _shiatsu_ they offer here could hold a torch to what I can do. And I'm more than happy to do it."

"So, uh... what now?"

"Now, Harold, I think we should check out their pool and Jacuzzi. I need you to relax a bit before we get to work on those knots." Reese reached into the shopping bag and handed Finch his new swimming trunks. "They have bathrobes in the closets, and I saw that there's a back elevator to go down to the pool and gym."

* * *

><p>Finch felt exposed walking down the hall in nothing but swimming trunks, slippers, and a bathrobe, but was glad that they had changed in the suite rather than in the locker room, where there was no privacy whatsoever. Once out in the pool area, he was even more relieved to see that they were the only ones there.<p>

"Wow! We have this whole place to ourselves," Reese said with unfeigned delight, languidly stretching his arms above his head. Finch could not help but stare at the toned muscles on the other man's back (actually, over all of his body) and wish he had done more push-ups on a regular basis. He attempted to stretch, as much as his injuries would allow, and realized that he had lost some range of motion which he had once worked hard to regain with physical therapy.

_This will never do_, he chastised himself, vowing to create and stick to an exercise regimen.

Reese was fiddling with the controls on the Jacuzzi, testing the strength of the jets with his hand.

"That should do. Any harder and it would be counterproductive," he murmured, then stepped into the roiling water. "Come on, Finch – the water's wonderful!"

Finch stepped in slowly, thinking that it was rather hotter than he liked, but when he sat down and felt the jets kneading his sore spots, he closed his eyes and sighed. He sensed that Reese was moving about, making adjustments, but when he opened his eyes again he couldn't see – his glasses had fogged over from the steam.

"I think I understand what you mean, Mr. Reese," he said as he removed his glasses and set them carefully on the ledge. "I could get used to this."

"Me, too."

Reese's voice had come from much closer than he had expected, and when he turned he realized that the other man had moved to sit right beside him, rather than across from him where he had been at first.

"We should consider making this an annual event. Maybe even a _monthly_ event," Reese suggested with a blissful smile, his eyes closed as he leaned his head back against the ledge.

"Indeed," was all Finch could say in reply. For now, he just wanted to rest against the soothing pressure of the water jets, letting them wash away his fatigue.

_It __**is**__ a rather demanding task that we've set out to do_, he mused, a part of his ever-wary mind still alert and conscious. _If we're to continue for any length of time, it will become necessary – even vital – to have some structured decompression sessions like this... to de-stress, re-group, and heal..._

Leaving the comfort of his position, Finch sat up and turned to observe Reese. He saw the many faded scars that spoke of the man's harrowing past, as well as the newly-healed bullet wound in his shoulder. Right in the middle of his abdomen, in the center of the triangle formed by his navel and nipples, was a red spot – from his research the night before, Finch knew that the tiny dot was where the spy had inserted a needle into Reese's nerve bundle, no doubt causing him excruciating pain.

"What?" Reese asked, opening his eyes, having sensed Finch's stare on him.

"I know a thing or two about pain, Mr. Reese," he answered carefully. "Not that I consider myself an authority on it, but I've tried various things to alleviate it since... since I was injured."

Reese fixed his entire attention on Finch. It was rare for the secretive man to share anything about his past, and he was not about to miss a word.

"If this is how you've dealt with your pain – and not just the physical aspect of it, but the psychological pressures of your job – I suppose it's as effective a means as any."

Finch lay back again, somewhat awkwardly, which Reese knew was due to his discomfort in confiding even the least bit of information with him, not his physical limitations.

"I've tried many things to alleviate my pain, too... Like you say, not just the physical pain, but the psychological," Reese told him in a low voice, just loud enough to be audible over the noise of the water. "But there's no panacea... no sure-fire cure-all. And what works one time might not work another. I just try to take care of the physical pain, and hope that the psychological will mend itself."

"Yes... at least there are ways to block out or dull the physical," Finch agreed.

"Is that why you weren't keeping tabs on the Machine last night?"

Finch knew exactly what he meant.

"Yes. If I can't help them... I'd rather not know."

He felt Reese's hand rest on his knee and give it a gentle, commiserating squeeze under the water.

_Yes... we're both familiar with the pain of bearing the burden of knowledge_, Finch pondered, feeling strangely comforted by that thought as well as by Reese's brief gesture of understanding.

As he willed his body to relax, his mind continued to analyze their situation from all angles: he knew that there could be monitors, even from outside of the building, watching their every move through the tinted glass; that at any moment, a chance encounter with someone from their past or the authorities currently searching for them could bring their enterprise to a crashing halt; or that the very next number the Machine gave them might lead to one or both of them becoming injured beyond recovery, even killed.

Finch knew the risks and dangers. But as he lay there, allowing his tired body to be pummeled by jets of water, he also knew that there was no other man on the planet whom he would rather have sitting beside him, united with him in his endeavors, than the man he knew as John Reese.


	3. Camaraderie

Getting Closer

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><p>Finch awoke with a start, somewhat disoriented to find himself in water, and grabbed the first thing that came to hand. It turned out to be Reese's arm, and he realized that Reese was speaking into his ear.<p>

"Relax, it's all right – but we've got company."

Squinting, he saw (and heard) several women in bright-colored swimming suits entering the pool area, chattering with excitement. He turned to retrieve his glasses, not because he wanted to see the women, particularly, but because he considered any stranger a threat and preferred to have all of his faculties sharp and ready for action should it become necessary. However, his glasses fogged up from the steam again, rendering them useless.

"Here, Harold," Reese offered with only a hint of amusement, taking them from him. "Let me help you with that."

Dunking them unceremoniously in the water, he brought them up after a moment and shook them dry, then placed them back on Finch's face with a tender stroke of his cheek for good measure. Finch swallowed, realizing that Reese had donned his gay persona again – no doubt for the benefit of their new companions.

"Hello," said the first of the women, a forty-something blonde with pink lipstick, who approached the Jacuzzi with a friendly smile. "Does that feel as good as it looks?"

"Even better," Reese smiled back. "Harold actually fell asleep for a while – didn't you, Harold?"

Finch could barely nod, his startled mind trying to digest the fact that with only a slight change in intonation, Reese had managed to turn an innocent sentence into a sultry purr. The woman's mouth formed a momentary moue as she also realized that the two men were _**together**_, but she rallied quickly and stepped into the Jacuzzi.

"Oh, you're right – it's heavenly!" she sighed.

They were soon surrounded by the women, most of whom chose to lie on the lounge chairs in the sun or swim in the pool, but like bees to honey, a good number of them buzzed around the Jacuzzi simply to find out more about the good-looking one of the two men. Finch opted to remain silent, leaving the chit-chat to Reese, and listened with growing amazement as his partner deftly navigated the situation in his self-appointed role.

"You're having a Mary Kay convention here? Oh, how nice!" Reese exclaimed. "So you girls must be tops in sales, right?"

The "girls" – most of them mothers with grown children – giggled with pleasure at the compliment. One of them politely asked Reese if they were here on vacation.

"Well, actually," Reese responded with a drawl, somehow managing to call up a blush to his cheeks, "it's our nine-year anniversary..." There was a round of appreciative coos. "_Next_ year is the big one, you know, but we thought it would be nice to get a little pampering for a change. Harold works _so hard_ all the time – I keep telling him to slow down, but _you_ know how it is! We have a small security company on the south end of town – installing video cameras for stores and gas stations, you know, little things like that – but when you're self-employed...!" He inserted a dramatic shrug. "You have to put your life and _soul_ into it just to compete with the big guys!"

Every so often Reese would turn to Finch for confirmation, and Finch (figuring that the easiest course of action was to play along) would nod. He noticed that when Reese turned to talk to one of the women sitting outside of the Jacuzzi, his hand had very naturally landed around his shoulders, and when he wasn't gesticulating with the other, it often came to rest upon his (Finch's) knee.

"What? Oh, no – Harold is the brains of the outfit!" Reese laughed. "I just try to help out with installation – I don't like him getting up on ladders, you know. But just last week I plugged in the _wrong_ wire to the _wrong_ socket, and see what a burn I got!"

This remark was made with a wave of his hand to the bullet wound in his shoulder. Finch hoped that none of the women were ER nurses who could identify what had really caused such an injury. Apparently not, as Reese was met with only sympathetic remarks.

"Well, I'm _such_ a klutz when it comes to technical things – I wouldn't know how to wire a _toaster_ to save my life!" Reese continued, much to the merriment of their company. "I don't know _what_ I would do without Harold watching out for me, and that's the honest truth. He's such a sweetheart to have put up with me all these years..."

At this, Reese turned to Finch with such an adoring, adulating gaze that Finch nearly snorted. Masking this by clearing his throat, Finch twisted his mouth into a smile and spoke for the first time.

"O-Only because you're such a good cook, darling."

There were outbursts of laughter at this, while Reese patted Finch's chest affectionately.

"Aww... you _do_ say the sweetest things!"

After asking about the new products that the women were selling (out of common courtesy, Finch presumed), Reese inquired which convention hall they were meeting in and promised to stop by later that day to look over their wares.

"You know, I really ought to write to Mary Kay headquarters and ask for a _special_ line, just for men," Reese began, but was interrupted by two of the women assuring him that they had men's products as well. "But that's just colognes and lotions, right? I'm talking about a full line of cosmetics for men – they could call it Mary _Gay!_"

That nearly brought down the house, and even Finch couldn't help but grimace in amusement. Reese went on to declare, in all seriousness, that he _would_ like to try their lotions.

"Harold's back gets so dry and itchy in the winter," he confided, much to Finch's embarrassment. "I can't always be there to scratch it for him, and it simply drives him _crazy_. Your products are hypo-allergenic, though, right? He has such sensitive skin... and speaking of that, we should probably get this chlorine rinsed off of you, shouldn't we, Harold?"

Finch nodded his assent, eager to get out of this increasingly uncomfortable situation. Reese helped him to stand up and hovered beside him very attentively as he made his way out of the Jacuzzi. Even when he was on the level and mostly-dry floor, Reese tucked one arm around his shoulder in a protective gesture. The women, some of them noticing Finch's injuries for the first time, let out a collective moan of sympathy.

"If you don't mind my asking... what happened?" an older one asked.

"He was in a car accident – swerved to avoid a squirrel that ran out into the street," Reese answered smoothly. "He ended up hitting a telephone pole, and it broke and fell on the car. Isn't it just _awful?_ You just never know when something like that can happen! But Harold is such a sweet soul, he wouldn't hurt a fly – and that's what makes him so _special_."

This was paired with another fawning gaze at said "Harold," who began limping as quickly as he could towards the locker room.

"Bye, girls! I'll see you later!" Reese called out over his shoulder as they left to a chorus of goodbyes.

* * *

><p>Finch was relieved to find the locker room deserted, for he wasn't sure how much longer he could have kept up the farce.<p>

"I must say, Mr. Reese," he remarked blandly, "I'm impressed with your acting skills. You should add that to your resume, should you ever need to seek alternate employment."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it, _Harold_," he replied with a coy smile. "I've found that sometimes, it can be... liberating, to become someone else. And really, since it's not like we'll ever see these people again, we're free to be as outrageous or as crazy as we want."

"I certainly hope that we won't cross paths with any of those ladies again," Finch said as he allowed Reese to lead him to the showers. "If one of their numbers came up, it would be rather difficult to explain to them what we really do."

"Oh, I don't think it would be _difficult_, necessarily," Reese countered, leaning against the door of Finch's stall. "Getting them to believe it – now _that_ might not be so easy."

Finch conceded the point with a nod and turned on the shower. His fingers and toes now resembled prunes, he noticed.

"Do you need any help, Harold?" came Reese's amused voice from the next stall.

"I'm quite all right, _darling_," Finch shot back, and was rewarded with a genuine laugh from the other man.

_Camaraderie_ – the word hit Finch almost like an electric shock. As he stood there, paralyzed, under the spray of water, his analytical mind sought out the myriad meanings latent in that concept and drew them together to form a cohesive whole.

_Brotherhood... brothers-in-arms... us against them... us against the world... _

The mental imagery swirled in his head.

_It really __**is**__ us against the world, but he's making it into something... humorous, nonsensical, entertaining... Unlike spycraft, where mistakes are paid for in blood and innocent lives, he's making it into a game, something __**fun**__... a private joke, a secret story, a shared history... something that even the Machine wouldn't know or can even begin to comprehend... _

Suddenly, like the tumblers of a lock or the pieces of a puzzle, it all fell into place.

_This is his way of coping... of dealing with the stress of our isolation,_ Finch realized. _We have been forced to live undercover, but by turning it into a game of whimsy, he can escape the harsh brutality... pretend we're doing it because we __**want**__ to, not because we __**have**__ to... It's how he keeps himself __**sane**__..._

The epiphany quite took his breath away; so much so that he failed to notice when Reese's shower was turned off.

"Finch?"

Startled, he turned around to find Reese looking at him with a somewhat concerned expression.

"Are you sure you don't need any help?"

"I'm sorry, my mind seems to have wandered off for a bit... I'll just be a minute."

"All right. I'll grab you a towel."

* * *

><p>Once back in their rooms, Reese ordered a light lunch from room service. Finch only wanted a salad, but Reese insisted that he eat a half sandwich, too, stating that he needed the protein to withstand what he was about to endure.<p>

Finch was also prepared to don his shirt and trousers again, but found Reese regarding him with incredulity in his eyes.

"Whatever for?" Reese asked pointedly. "Isn't the bathrobe comfortable?"

"It's comfortable enough, Mr. Reese, but it's the middle of the day."

"So? We're on vacation, Finch. There's no need to get all dressed up on _my_ account."

"Yes, well, I'm not accustomed to eating lunch wearing nothing but... a _bathrobe_."

He had almost said "underwear" but stopped himself in time.

Reese smiled indulgently and remarked, "Well, if it bothers you that much, you _could_ wear the new pajamas I got you..."

"I suppose so. It would at least be an improvement over... this."

"But it wouldn't do you any good, you know," Reese apprised him.

"Oh? Why not?"

"Because I'll just make you take it off later."

The suggestiveness with which the taller man informed him of his intentions made Finch's heart falter momentarily.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ he wondered.

At that moment there was a knock on their door and Reese jumped up to answer it, snatching the bills he had counted out for the tip. He returned with the cart before Finch could even think of changing his attire, so he resigned himself to eating lunch as he was. He figured that since Reese was dressed similarly, it wasn't so bad.

"So. What shall we talk about?" Reese began abruptly after setting out their plates and taking a sip of his bottled water.

"I beg your pardon?" Finch asked in return, one eyebrow shooting up in unfeigned surprise.

"Well, when we're working on a case, we have that to talk about," Reese reasoned. "Since we don't have a case to discuss, we need to pick something else. So what'll it be? Favorite movies? Or perhaps, for you, favorite books?"

"I don't see why we need to have a topic at all, Mr. Reese." Finch took a bite of his salad.

"If we don't set one out, though, I might make the mistake of asking you something... too personal." Reese also took a bite of his sandwich and regarded his employer. "You _did_ promise that you wouldn't lie to me, so if I ask the wrong question..."

"I would simply tell you that I am not comfortable answering it," Finch replied.

They ate in silence for a few moments as Reese considered the possibilities this opened up. He was a good judge of character, and prided himself on reading people; and although Finch could certainly decline answering, the manner in which he declined could be telling. With the right sorts of questions he might be able to infer a great deal...

_But that wouldn't be fair to Finch_, he finally concluded. There was a line, somewhere, and he did not want to cross it.

"All right then," he began anew, gesturing with the pickle that had come with his sandwich, "favorite novel."

"The Brothers Karamazov," Finch replied without hesitation. "Yours?"

"Catch-22."

"Yes, of course."

"Favorite movie?"

"Will you promise not to laugh?"

"Yes."

"The Sound of Music."

There was a pause as Reese restrained himself from so much as smiling. It took a monumental effort, but he knew that it was necessary, and that Finch would appreciate it.

"Yours?" Finch asked when he considered it safe.

"Life Is Beautiful."

"Ah! Good choice."

And so it continued on through their peaceful lunch.


	4. Massage

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>They returned to the subject of books after lunch, since Reese wanted to let both their stomachs settle for a while, and Finch found himself talking more freely than he had in a long time. He was explaining to Reese how he viewed the similarities and differences between the nightmare future of George Orwell's <span>1984<span>, the cynical realism of Heller's Catch-22, the maniacal fatalism of Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five, and the near-suffocating totalitarianism of Kafka's The Trial; and he was pleased to find that not only had Reese read all of these books, he had also retained a good portion of their contents and was capable of asking pertinent questions. Finch described several scenes to jog his memory, of course, but overall it was a stimulating conversation, and one that (while eerily resembling, in some cases, their own lives and current situation) took them for a brief time out of the here and now.

"I see how some might interpret it that way," Reese responded to one of his comments, "but I really didn't think Vonnegut was being facetious when I first read it. I thought it was an ideological fantasy – a means of wishful thinking, so to speak – to bring in the whole concept of the fourth dimension. Just because he's talking about aliens doesn't mean he's trying to write science fiction, and to dismiss his philosophy on the issue without hearing out his argument is a rather premature and snap judgment."

"Oh, I agree," Finch assured him. "But his brand of fatalism – that foundless optimism in the face of knowledge, even when that knowledge is dire – is patently absurd. Even supposing that the human species might someday grow capable of seeing into the future, our very nature is such that we would either despair and commit suicide upon learning what was in store for us (thereby changing whatever future we had seen) or choose to fight our fate, tooth and nail, in an attempt to change it for the better. And I believe we _are_ capable of enough tenacity to figure out what will work to change our future, at which point we would be back to square one. We're simply not cut out for omniscience."

"Which brings us back to the Machine, doesn't it?" Reese said wryly. "Even your brilliant Machine isn't cut out for omniscience – the future it sees can be changed. Which is why we have to fight that future for each person, tooth and nail."

"Yes... That does boil it down to a nutshell, doesn't it? If you'll pardon my mixed metaphors..."

"Oh, of course," Reese chuckled. "But as interesting as this all has been, I think it's high time we got down to business."

Finch looked up at him askance, having momentarily forgotten where they were and why, so caught up was he in the world of books.

"I'll need all the pillows in the suite to make sure you're comfortable," the taller man continued, standing up and stretching before he went into Finch's room.

Finally remembering that they were here for a "spa retreat," Finch picked up the remains of their lunch to distract himself. He knew the pain would be worth it, in the end, since his upper back was already feeling better from the treatment that Reese had given it earlier, but he was still understandably nervous about what he would have to endure.

Reese breezed by him with his arms loaded, saying, "Oh, don't bother with that right now – I'll get it later. Besides, I need you to test this out."

Following him into the other room, Finch watched as he pulled back the covers and lined up the pillows on top of the mattress.

"Your face goes here, and I'll get you a towel to support your forehead. Then you'll want some leeway here," indicating the crotch area, "and your feet should be elevated. That looks about right... Well, try it on for size and see how it feels – I'll go get that towel."

Finch removed his glasses and gingerly climbed onto the bed, trying not to disturb the array, and lay face-down on the softness. Reese returned with a rolled bath towel in time to place it under his forehead.

"How's that?"

"Quite comfortable, Mr. Reese. Although it might have been easier to rent one of their massage rooms with those tables."

"I think this will be much more comfortable in the long run, and it's _definitely_ more private."

"True," Finch agreed. Then he nearly choked as he felt Reese's hand slipping under his stomach and untying the belt of his robe. "M-Mr. Reese?"

"Relax, Harold. You didn't expect me to work on your pressure points through the bathrobe, did you?" Reese asked rhetorically, removing the bathrobe from him one arm at a time before pulling it down to cover his legs.

"I... well..."

Finch could see the other man grinning in his mind's eye, even though his field of view was limited to the area of sheet right beneath his face. He felt warm hands touch his back directly, with no cloth barrier shielding his skin, and wished he could stop the flush that was creeping around his neck.

"Why don't you start by taking a few deep breaths. Do you have enough clearance for your face? Any areas I need to adjust? All right, then, breathe in... and out... in... out..."

At first Reese only rubbed the surface of Finch's coiled muscles, getting him accustomed to being touched and manipulated. Then he tackled a spot between Finch's neck and right shoulder that caused him to gasp in pain.

"It's from using the mouse all the time," Reese explained. "We'll have to take this one in stages. Ready? Breathe... breathe..."

Finch truly needed Reese to remind him to breathe, for the pain seemed connected to his fused vertebrae, but after several excruciating moments of struggling for air, Reese let up on the pressure and rubbed around it. Once it was relaxed again, he moved down to Finch's right elbow.

"You should try using the mouse with your left hand sometimes," Reese advised. "This is tight all along here, too."

"Yes... I keep intending to, and then... when I get caught up in work, I forget," Finch admitted. "That does feel good, right there..."

Reese continued to dig his fingers into key areas along both of his employer's arms, and smiled as Finch's breathing slowed.

"Now comes the fun part," Reese murmured before getting up on the bed and straddling the prone man's waist.

"Wh-What are you—?" Finch began, feeling the bed shake. His answer came in the form of Reese's hands applying even pressure on his lower back, one on each side of his spine. "Oh..." slipped from his mouth inadvertently as he realized what sort of position his masseur had taken.

"Here's another bad one," Reese commented, rubbing both of his thumbs on the same spot. Finch grunted in pain and agreement. "It's from your limp. Take a deep breath, now..."

Again Finch felt the sharp-hot sensation, as of a poker just taken from the fire being pressed into his flesh; the pain radiated like lava from a volcano, but he forced himself to breathe as Reese coaxed him, and gradually the heat became bearable.

"Good, good... I'll come back to that one later, too, just to make sure we got it all, but you're doing great, Finch."

The other ones along his spine were not as bad and comparatively easy to deal with, although Reese took the time to rub around each spot to ensure that there was no lingering stiffness anywhere. Then it was time to tackle the bad one in his shoulder again, and Reese pushed Finch to the limit, letting up only when he broke out in a cold sweat.

"That's a stubborn one, all right," Reese said, removing his own bathrobe and covering Finch's trembling back with it. "Keep breathing – I'll be right back."

He returned with a hand towel rinsed in hot water, which he placed on Finch's sore shoulder.

"Thank you... that's much better," Finch gasped.

"I'm sorry I pushed you so hard," Reese said, opting to work on Finch's legs for the moment. "I kept thinking that it was almost done, but you've spent years using a mouse – putting knots on top of your knots – and I can't reverse it all in a few seconds."

"I realize that, Mr. Reese. And I do appreciate what you're doing."

"Don't mention it."

Reese worked his way down to Finch's heels, pressing on either side of his Achilles' tendons to grateful groans, then began kneading the soles of his feet.

"Uh... Mr. Reese?"

"Yes, Mr. Finch?"

"That's really not necessary... I mean, you don't have to—"

"I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't want to, Finch. Trust me, I don't mind – it gives me a sense of satisfaction to feel all that tension melt away."

"Well... in that case, you really should consider trying some of the hotel's spa treatments. They may not measure up to your standards, but still... the only time _you've_ been able to relax so far was when we were in the Jacuzzi."

"This _is_ relaxing for me, Finch. It's actually rather... therapeutic," Reese smiled, pulling on each one of his employer's toes. "But once I've worked all the knots out of you, you can rest here while I go treat myself to some retail therapy."

"'Retail therapy'?"

"Remember those girls we met at the pool?"

"Uh... of course."

"I plan on paying them a little visit – to see if they have some nice _lotion_ for my Harold."

Since Reese delivered the last bit with a slow stroke of his palms up Finch's calves, it was impossible for him to miss the sexual innuendo. His mouth went dry as Reese continued up the backs of his thighs, removing one of the two bathrobes covering him to do so.

"A man can never have too much lotion around the house, you know," he asserted in his alter ego's soft, lilting voice. "Or wine, for that matter..."

Finch felt the bed shake again as Reese mounted it, and him, and proceeded to rub the two halves of his buttocks with both hands.

"Oh, poor Harold... your ass has gotten terribly uneven in the past few years. Comes from having to favor your one leg... Just relax and breathe, and I'll make it all better..."

Finch swallowed hard as he tried not to tense up, reminding himself that Reese was only teasing to try to get a reaction out of him; unfortunately, it was working, and it took a while to get his breathing under control again. Which meant that Reese's hands stayed in that vicinity for quite some time, working over and under his still-damp swimming trunks. But despite the psychological discomfort, he had to admit that the muscles there were sore, especially on the one side that worked harder to cover for his injury, and Reese's warm hands seemed to give them exactly the relief that they needed.

"I'm going to finish this one," Reese informed him, rubbing around the sore spot in his lower back. "Deep breaths, now..."

The pain, thankfully, was not as intense as the first time, and after a few moments it dissipated altogether. Finch breathed sighs of relief while Reese stroked up and down his spine to let his tingling nerves settle down. He was so distracted by the fact that – for the first time in years – his lower back felt completely relaxed, he didn't even notice when Reese removed the second bathrobe covering his upper body.

Reese was now straddling his legs wearing nothing but his swimming trunks, which was also the only article of clothing that Finch was wearing.

_If anybody walked in on us now, they really __**would**__ think we're lovers_, Reese grinned silently to himself. _Poor Finch... he's trying so hard not to let on that it bothers him!_

In lieu of an apology, Reese massaged the prone man's back for a long time with delightful circular strokes that left him moaning in spite of himself. In fact, Finch's breathing slowed down almost to the level of sleep.

"Finch?" Reese whispered. There was no reply. He stretched himself over the other man's back, sliding his hands slowly across the mattress on either side of his body until he could peer over Finch's shoulder. When he was certain that his eyes were closed, he lowered his own body very gently onto Finch's back, letting his chest and abdomen warm the slightly-chilled skin of the other man.

"Damn, Finch... you're so adorable when you're sleeping," he murmured, resting his cheek against Finch's shoulder blade. He continued to rub his one exposed shoulder and pressed his legs against Finch's so that they wouldn't get cold. However, after several minutes Reese himself was getting cold, so he carefully moved away and covered Finch up with the top sheet and blankets that he had pulled off earlier.

He went into the bathroom to put on his street clothes again, leaving his shirt untucked and open one button lower than usual to give himself a more bohemian air. Then he paused at Finch's bedside, crouching down to look into his sleeping face.

"Be good while I'm gone, Harold. And don't wander off anywhere," he said softly, before pressing his lips to Finch's temple.


	5. Adorable

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Finch was, in fact, a very light sleeper; he often had to resort to medication to get a good night's rest. When he did fall asleep at his desk, it was because his body had been pushed to its limits and had tripped the emergency power-down circuit.<p>

It felt almost the same after Reese had massaged him so thoroughly – like his eyes were shutting down of their own accord. But he had heard Reese calling him. He simply hadn't been able to muster the energy required to respond. And he had felt the taller man lying down on top of him, though it had not caused him any physical discomfort; in fact, although he might have been uncomfortable about such close contact with another male ordinarily, his mind was in a happy, hazy fog that didn't register the touch as unnatural. It simply felt good to have Reese's warmth against his skin.

But then he had also heard Reese's remark: "_Damn, Finch... you're so adorable when you're sleeping_." His brain registered it as a compliment, and something else – something perhaps requiring special categorization – but before it could finish processing the information, it had shut down and made him drift off to sleep.

* * *

><p>Reese had found a good number of the "girls" from the pool at the convention hall, and was directed by them to make his purchases from a saleswoman who was just shy of getting to the next level. He tried various samples, rubbing coin-sized circles on his own skin, to decide what would be best for "my Harold."<p>

"He's upstairs resting now, since I worked him over pretty hard – his muscles were _so_ tense! I really need to get him out of the house for mini-vacations more often, I think. He needs a change of pace, the poor man..."

Reese kept his eyes open wide, giving him a more innocent and vacuous expression, and cocked his head at angles as though he had to listen hard to follow their instructions. His hips were also tilted and his hands more fluid in their gestures, reinforcing his gay impression.

"No! Really? You have a foot massage lotion? Harold _loves_ foot massages! He's on his feet so much, poor dear, and I do try to pamper him when I can. Oh, I _have_ to have it! I'll try it out on him as soon as he wakes up!"

With his purchases hanging from one elbow in a pink bag, his wrist upraised in elegant uselessness, Reese continued to chat with the women for a while longer before declaring that he really _had_ to get back to Harold. Even on the elevator he kept up his charade, apologizing to an elderly couple for the strong scents that he had carried in with him.

"But they had so many different products, I just _had_ to try them _all_," he explained with a charming laugh. "Harold's going to tell me I smell like a French _bordello_ if I don't wash it off right away, I just _know_ it!"

The woman politely concurred, keeping her astonishment in check with some difficulty. Neither she nor her husband had ever met a six-foot-tall fairy before, and as soon as the elevator doors closed on the magnificent spectacle, they fell into a fit of giggles, eager to tell their family of their strange New York encounter.

* * *

><p>Finch was still sleeping when Reese quietly re-entered the suite. He washed the samples off of his hands and wrists before approaching the bed.<p>

"Oh, Ha~ro~ld?" he called in a low voice, kneeling to peer into Finch's face. There was no answer this time, either, and for a few minutes he simply gazed at his unconscious employer. The guardedness so characteristic of Finch was, of course, absent, as was his usual look of intense concentration. Everything about him was relaxed, and Reese reached out to stroke his cheek with the backs of his fingers before he could stop himself.

_If only it could always be this peaceful,_ Reese thought with longing. _Your poor back wouldn't get so tense and stiff... Although then I wouldn't have an excuse to get you out of your clothes..._

With a private smile curling his lips, forming parenthetical wrinkles on either side of his mouth, Reese sat with his back to the wall and simply watched Finch sleep. However, his thoughts were miles, even years away, thinking back to the deceit and despair that had led up to his becoming a wild monster of a man, lurking in the shadows of the city and being dragged into the murky streetlights only when his violence broke out like an unchained animal. He reflected, as he often did when not occupied with his work, on how Finch had saved him from himself – how the reclusive man had pursued him in an effort to exorcise the demons that haunted him as well. And the warmth that washed through Reese's heart was more than gratitude.

"_We have more in common than you might think,"_ Finch had told him when they had first met. Reese found it amazing, even humbling, that the successful computer genius had identified with his former self – especially at his lowest point. But he understood now what Finch had known then: they both cared about justice and protecting the defenseless; they were both wary of governments and other organizations that had outgrown their original purpose; and they both wanted to redeem themselves, it seemed, from pasts that they would have erased if possible.

_Whatever mistakes you might have made in the past,_ Reese thought at the sleeping man before him, _you're still a good man. I know your heart is in the right place. I just wish I could take more of your burden from you... _

He knew that by working on the cases now and (for the most part) solving them, he had eliminated Finch's burden for those; unfortunately, he could not travel into the past to rescue the ones that already lay heavily on his employer's mind. Just remembering the bloodcurdling screams he had heard on the recorder – which must have been multiplied a hundredfold at least, based on the numbers and faces displayed on Finch's tally board – made him ache with compassion, not only for the victims but also for the man who had been forced to watch, impotently, as the events unfolded, from a hundred thousand camera angles.

Finch stirred slightly with a sigh, causing Reese to stand up and lay his hands on the man's back. Nothing seemed tense or out of place except for the scarred skin covering his injuries.

"I'm not sure that's the most comfortable position for you, though," he murmured, and gently rolled Finch onto his uninjured side, sliding out most of the pillows and placing one under his head. Finch's eyes fluttered for a moment but became still again, denoting that he was in the deepest stage of slumber.

Tucking him back in, Reese considered dressing him in the new pajamas. Then he realized that he ought to remove his swimming trunks. Suddenly, the prospect of having Finch naked and at his mercy was too great a temptation to resist. Diving under the covers, Reese carefully pulled the trunks down the other man's legs and took them to the bathroom, hanging them up next to his own to dry. He had noticed in the locker room earlier that Finch had showered with the trunks still on, so he didn't bother washing them again.

_It doesn't seem fair to leave you naked while I'm fully clothed, though, does it?_ Reese rationalized to himself, and emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a smirk. _Now we're on a level playing ground..._

He slipped in under the covers behind Finch, sliding one arm under his waist and wrapping both around his torso in a tender caress. The sensation of warm skin against warm skin, flesh against flesh, nearly made tears well up in the taller man's eyes. He could remember exactly how long it had been since he had last experienced such gratification, and acknowledged that it had been _too_ long, since such a simple pleasure now moved him so. Taking nothing for granted, he pressed his lips against the white skin of Finch's back, enjoying the soft, silky texture. When he drifted off to sleep, his lips were still touching Finch's shoulder, his arms still wrapped protectively and possessively around Finch's body, and his dreams were of walking in a park along the river with the man he adored.

* * *

><p>When Finch awoke he thought he was still dreaming, since he was wrapped in such a sense of warmth and well-being as he had not experienced in real life for quite some time. He lay there, simply soaking in the comfort which had so long evaded him, and hoped (in the back of his mind) that he wouldn't have to wake up. However, there was a recurring noise coming from somewhere behind him, and the cautious side of his nature kept prodding him to investigate its source.<p>

_Sometimes it's better not to know where the danger is coming from,_ he sighed internally, but knew that he would have to look into it now that it was beginning to worry him. He attempted to move and noticed, for the first time, the strong arms that were clasped around him. When he pushed back the covers, he recognized the fingers – those long, delicate fingers which were capable of so much – almost immediately.

_Mr. __**Reese?**_ he thought, his jaw dropping in bafflement. But he was quite sure of it. And then in rapid succession he realized that the sound was of someone sleeping with a light snore, and the warmth at his back had the consistency of another human being. A _naked_ human being.

_Dear God, what is happening?_ he asked with almost religious fervor. He sensed that he himself was naked, and as his startled, wide-open eyes began to focus on his surroundings, he remembered the massage. Reese removing his bathrobe. Pain in his pressure points, with eventual relief. Reese rubbing his legs, his feet, his toes, with inexpressibly delightful results.

_Ah... right. So I must still be wearing those new swimming trunks... _

However, he quickly realized that this was not the case. As he held up the covers to double-check, Reese stirred and tightened his hands around him, bringing them into even closer contact. With a chill that ran down his spine, Finch discovered that Reese, also, was as naked as the day he was born.

_Don't panic... There must be a reason for this... a very __**good**__ reason..._ Finch told himself desperately. _What happened? What's the last thing I remember?_

He recounted the acupressure session in detail, but his memory grew hazy from about the time when Reese had started simply massaging him.

_So I must have fallen asleep. No, wait... John said something to me before I completely went under... something about... _

"_Damn, Finch... you're so adorable when you're sleeping." _

From the recesses of his mind, like a critical recording from a case, the words were replayed. Finch froze, shocked and unable to digest their meaning for the visceral impact they created.

_He... thinks I'm... __**"adorable"?**_

He pondered the statement for several minutes, analyzing it for any other possible meanings. Did it mean that he was _not_ adorable when he was awake – was it actually a criticism of his usual demeanor? Was it said sarcastically? Was it perhaps a complaint because he had fallen asleep after Reese had done all of the hard work?

None of the alternatives seemed likely, so that the face value of the words – despite how unlikely _that_ seemed as well – was still the most probable interpretation.

_Of course, that would certainly explain... our current condition,_ Finch mused to himself, then swallowed as a sudden suspicion entered his mind. _If... If he joined me here, in bed, right after I fell asleep, did he... could he possibly have...?_

Finch wanted to dismiss the thought from his mind with a resounding, _**No!**__ Of course he didn't – he __**wouldn't!**__ He would __**never**__ do such a thing! Take advantage of someone? It's beneath him!_

However, his dispassionate (and paranoid) mind insisted, _You shouldn't have trusted him! Why did you let him touch you like that? He might have thought you were asking for it! Maybe it was all signals – coded messages that only gay men know – and you inadvertently agreed to it. Maybe he worked you over so hard just to make you dead to the world, planning on raping you while you were out. Or maybe he was trying to seduce you, and took advantage of the opportunity you so foolishly presented to him! _

Trembling, Finch attempted to disentangle himself from Reese's arms, but of course Reese awoke as soon as he moved his hand.

"Good morning, Harold," he purred in his ear, hugging him closer.


	6. DELETED Pleasurable

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	7. DELETED Pedicure

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	8. DELETED Friction

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	9. Dinner

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Reese chose a blue tie to accentuate his eyes, glad that he had worn a charcoal-gray shirt with his black suit which matched just about anything. As he came out of the cloakroom, he saw the elderly couple whom he had encountered before (in the elevator) waiting to be seated, and smiled at them in recognition.<p>

"Well, hello!" he called out cheerily with a wave of his hand. "So we meet again! And may I just say, you look _stunning_ in that dress!"

"Why, thank you," the woman said, her cheeks turning pink with pleasure. "You look quite dashing, yourself!"

"Oh, you're too kind," Reese replied demurely. "I needed a little help from our friends, here," indicating the attendant, "because Harold forgot to tell me that we would be going _out_ tonight. It's a mercy I even had a suit packed... _Men!_" he joked with a titter, giving the couple an excuse to laugh outright. "Of course, Harold just doesn't think of such things, since he's practically _welded_ to his tie and three-piece. But he's so good to me, I really can't complain. Are you folks waiting for somebody? Well, I hope you enjoy your dinner. I'm not sure what Harold's ordered for me, but I'm sure it will be _marvelous_. Ta-ta!"

He could not resist walking out to the table behind the _maître d'_ with a noticeable swing in his hips, smiling broadly when he saw Finch's eyebrows rise in consternation.

"I thought we had agreed on a more... _low-profile_ cover for tonight," Finch pointed out in an undertone after Reese had been seated.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Harold! I had so much fun picking out a tie that I forgot," Reese replied with a straight face. "I'll try harder, I promise!"

As this was delivered with a stroke of his ankle against Finch's shin, hidden by the long tablecloth, Finch could only sigh and resign himself to what was to come.

"I didn't know if you would care for the Dover Sole (my personal favorite) so I ordered the Tournedos Rossini for you," Finch informed him. "It comes with potatoes and asparagus. I also ordered oysters and smoked salmon for our appetizers – you can choose whichever you'd like."

"Or we can just split them and try a little of both," Reese smiled, his ankle still rubbing against Finch's as he gazed upon him fondly. "I'm glad you ordered the oysters, though..."

Finch opened his mouth to speak, but paused as the significance of Reese's statement sunk in.

"Ah... I only chose them because this place is known for their seafood," he insisted, wishing that he did not turn red so easily when flustered. "I hadn't even considered their... _supposed _aphrodisiac qualities."

"Of course not," Reese purred with a half-hidden smirk.

The waiter returned to pour their wine, a chardonnay label that Reese did not recognize but could appreciate nonetheless.

"Delicious!" he declared after his first sip.

"I'm glad you like it," Finch said, inhaling the aroma.

"Oh, Harold! You know me – I'm happy to drink cheap liquor straight from the bottle," Reese remarked, his eyes twinkling with glee. "You don't have to buy a hundred-dollar bottle of wine to impress me!"

"Four hundred. But I'll keep that in mind for the next time."

Reese ogled him for a moment before sniffing his glass with renewed respect.

"Well. You certainly know how to treat a guy right," was his dry comment.

Some movement caught Finch's eye and he observed a party being seated not far from them.

"Interesting," he murmured, almost to himself.

"What's that?" Reese asked.

"Oh, nothing... I just recognized that man over there – the older one – as former Senator Russwood. The other man I believe is the CFO of Rolex USA."

"Are they, really? How on earth do you know them?"

"I read the papers, Mr. Reese. The Senator was in charge of a subcommittee that... let's just say I was very interested in their decisions."

"I see. Well, I've only spoken to them briefly, but his wife seems to be a _lovely_ lady."

"You've spoken to them?"

"We rode up together in the elevator, after I went shopping. I had to apologize for smelling of all those lotions!"

"Ah. I see..."

Here their appetizers were brought out, so for a while they were busy with switching halves of the portions and ascertaining that the restaurant did indeed deserve its reputation for seafood. However, when Finch happened to glance at the other table, he was shocked to discover that the retired Senator was looking straight at him. Since their eyes had locked, Finch managed a small, awkward nod of acknowledgement, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and turned to Reese.

"John, why is the Senator staring at us?"

"What? Oh, he probably wants to see what you look like. I told them all about 'my Harold.'"

"You did _what?_"

"Oh, I didn't tell them anything personal, of course! At least, nothing about our sex life..."

Finch's lips pursed while his eyebrows shot up as high as they could go. Although Reese had made his statement with aplomb, he burst out laughing at Finch's expression of horror.

"Honestly, Harold, I didn't tell them _anything!_ Just that you're my honey and the sweetest man alive, that's all!"

Finch contemplated this, trying to will his heart rate to return to a more normal pace, and took another sip of wine. He was further disconcerted when Reese placed a hand on his.

"Relax, Harold. We're just two people out on a dinner date. Chances are we'll never meet the Senator or his wife or friends again. So just have more wine and enjoy the oysters."

Their main courses arrived and Finch did relax somewhat as his first bite of fish melted like butter in his mouth. Reese was also relieved to find that Finch had ordered him a straightforward dish of meat-and-potatoes, albeit a very expensive version, with filet mignon for the steak and white truffles flavoring the potatoes.

"It's all... _exquisite_," he assured Finch with another nudge of his long leg under the table. "But really, you don't have to be so extravagant on _my_ account. When I was in a remote area in the Middle East, I was invited to dinner at the house of the chief elder of the village – a very great honor, of course. What I didn't know was, as the guest of honor, I was expected to eat the eyes of the sheep that they'd just slaughtered for the feast. I told myself that it was protein, and even managed to chew it before swallowing it down with the local brew, but the texture was something else! The guys I was with gave me a lot of credit for that one."

"There are many cultures where the eyes are considered a delicacy," Finch replied calmly. "And in areas where there are few sources of protein, I'm sure they're a valuable food item. I've read that in some countries, the larvae of insects are a regular part of the diet."

"Roasted or fried?"

"Neither. I believe they're consumed raw."

Reese chewed on this bit of information along with a succulent bite of asparagus.

"Well, I can honestly say that I don't envy them their lifestyle."

A ghost of a smile appeared on Finch's face as he agreed, "Neither do I."

For dessert Finch broke down and ordered the Crème Brûlée – "I must admit, I have a weakness for it," he said with some embarrassment – while Reese chose the Warm Blueberry Crumble.

"This is wonderful, Harold – you should try a bite!" Reese teased, extending a forkful. To his surprise, Finch ate it off of his fork without any hesitation.

"Yes, it _is_ quite good," Finch stated very matter-of-factly. "I suppose you would like a bite of mine, as well?"

"That would certainly be a nice gesture," Reese answered, still a little taken aback. He was even more mystified when Finch offered him a spoonful of his Crème Brûlée, but leaned forward to take it in his mouth.

"Mmm... heavenly!"

"My sentiments exactly," Finch said, a wry smile curling the edges of his mouth. "And for your information, our friend the former Senator happened to be watching just now. I saw him in the reflection of the window."

"Really? So you actually put on a show for him? Harold, I'm impressed!"

Finch shrugged. "It would seem that you've piqued his interest, Mr. Reese. Or perhaps (unlikely as it may seem) he simply hasn't seen a gay couple before. Either way, as you mentioned, we will probably never see him again, so what's the harm?"

Reese's smile grew like the Cheshire Cat's across his face.

"Mr. Finch, I think there might be some hope for you yet. You're beginning to _enjoy_ going undercover!"

"Please, John, it's 'Smith' while we're in public."

"All right; but then you have to remember to call me 'John,' too."

"Agreed. It's harder than I realized to change my habits, though..."

"You should just make it a habit to call me 'John' all the time" Reese grinned. "I don't mind it."

"Well... if it doesn't seem too... unprofessional..."

"Oh, Harold! I think we've crossed that line a long, _long_ time ago."

"You mean around three-thirty this afternoon?" Finch said with a droll expression, referring to Reese's hand job.

"Either that, or over nine years ago when we first met," Reese answered sweetly.

Finch paid for the dinner and finished the wine while Reese sipped his espresso, after which they headed out to the reception area. While Reese was in the cloakroom returning the borrowed tie, the party from the other table also came out. Finch could not avoid looking at them, so when he met the gaze of the older gentleman, he nodded again and murmured, "Senator Russwood. Nice to see you looking so well."

Startled, the former Congressman scrutinized Finch more closely.

"Thank you. I was wondering, earlier, if we hadn't met before... You seem familiar, and yet I can't for the life of me remember where we might have met."

"Ah... We might have crossed paths in D.C. when I was lobbying for the Energy Policy Act, back in '04 and '05," Finch suggested. "I was following your work in the subcommittee rather closely, as I had a vested interest in the bill."

Reese came out of the antechamber and beamed at the gathered group, hovering just behind Finch.

"A vested interest? How so?" Russwood asked, now obviously curious.

"One of my companies had just started research on wind-generated power. Thanks to the subsidy provided for in the bill, Pneumatech Power has grown steadily – enough to be listed on its own on the NYSE."

"I'm glad to hear that! We're always encouraged to hear about American innovations, and the success of entrepreneurs like yourself," Russwood said with a sincere smile. "But you _did_ say 'one of your companies' – how are your other enterprises faring in this economy?"

"Some, not as well," Finch confessed. "My main focus now is on developing several smaller businesses offering a variety of security services – surveillance, computer firewalls, server backups, that sort of thing – as a total package. I believe it will be the fastest-growing need in the next ten to twenty years, as criminals become more technologically savvy and intellectual property becomes harder to protect."

"Is that a fact," the gentleman said with a thoughtful, piercing gaze. "Do you know, I've been wondering about our home security service lately—"

"Oh, Fred," his wife interrupted, "don't stand here talking shop all night! You mustn't impose on their time..."

"It's no imposition, Mrs. Russwood," Finch assured her. "Because of your husband's work, I was able to make a small fortune off of research that might have been abandoned otherwise. In fact, it's not an exaggeration to say that I owe him one."

"Well, if you're sure it's no trouble..." she began, dubiously.

"But you're right, my dear – we shouldn't keep them standing here," Russwood agreed, then addressed Finch again. "We were just heading down to the jazz bar with our friends. Would you care to join us? I do have something that I'd like to pick your brain about, if you really don't mind..."

Finch turned to Reese with the query written in the silent arch of his eyebrows.

"That sounds lovely... I just _love_ jazz!" Reese smiled, slipping one hand around Finch's arm. The gesture did not seem to catch anyone by surprise – not even Finch – and the three couples filed into the elevator together, making their introductions on their ride down to the basement level.


	10. Drinks

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Since the former Senator wanted to talk to Finch and the wives wanted to talk to each other, the other man of the party (who introduced himself only as Earl Havers) was stuck sitting next to Reese. He seemed to regard the tall, currently-flamboyant man with some reservation, as though he feared his gayness might somehow be contagious. Reese politely tried to engage him in conversation, but as the older man gave him very little encouragement, he gave up and leaned in to listen to Finch's conversation with Fred Russwood.<p>

"The technology has developed exponentially," Finch was saying. "Things that were considered impossible – like the Dick Tracy two-way television watch – are not only possible but commonplace. The true competition _now_ is to find out what sorts of technologies people really _want_ and _need_, and to develop the best new applications to meet those needs."

The waiter came by with their drinks, leaving identical glasses of small-batch whiskey in front of Reese and the Senator and a tawny port for Finch. As Reese savored his first sip, Russwood noticed his choice of drink.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a Maker's man, Mr. Westerton," he remarked, using the alias that Reese had given them.

"Oh, I _love_ whiskey!" Reese responded with a coy smile. "In fact, before I met Harold, I was on the verge of becoming an alcoholic. But tonight I don't have to drive home, so it'll be my little treat." He turned to Finch and batted his eyelashes, eliciting a snort-like chuckle from his "partner."

"Don't let him fool you, Senator," Finch informed him dryly. "John can drink most men under the table. The only reason he _didn't_ become an alcoholic was that it took him too many drinks to get drunk!"

Reese laughed good-naturedly at that, curling his fingers around Finch's elbow. "Oh, Harold! You make me sound like a perfect _lush_. Although I'll be the first to admit, I might've been homeless by now if you hadn't come along and rescued me – like a knight in shining armor..."

Finch reddened as the rest of the table tittered.

"What was your line of work before your... 'rescue'?" Russwood asked with a smile.

"I worked in private security out in LA. Mostly just monitoring security monitors," Reese answered smoothly. "It was a lazy man's job, but _some_one had to do it!"

"Now he helps me install those cameras, as well as other security devices," Finch jumped in, remembering their earlier cover story with the Mary Kay women. "Which brings us back to that issue you mentioned about your _own_ security system, Senator."

Russwood nodded and took another sip of his whiskey. "Yes. Elizabeth thinks that I'm... imagining things, but I keep getting this distinct feeling that... I'm being _watched_."

Finch considered this for a brief moment before replying, "Well, you _are_. A man of your status can't escape the public eye, even when you're retired and out of the political limelight. The real question is, is there a concerted effort to watch you, and if so, to what purpose?"

"Agreed. The odd thing is, I feel the most... spied upon, so to speak, when I'm at home," he explained. "I can understand the paparazzi training their cameras on me when I'm in town, but... frankly, it unnerves me to feel like I'm being watched in my own _house_."

"Since when have you been feeling this way?"

"Oh... about five, six months now. I keep calling the security company to make sure they haven't overlooked anything, but they keep telling me that everything is normal."

"It could be a simple sensitivity to electromagnetism – depending on how your house has been wired, you may be feeling the effects of stronger electrical currents in certain areas."

"I considered that, and had an electrician inspect it, but there's nothing wrong with the wiring. Besides, we've been in that house for over thirty years, so why would it start now?"

"Well, if you don't mind, may I see your cell phone?" Finch asked, and the Senator pulled it out. "I'd like to check if anyone has hacked into it – that's usually a good indication that someone has set up surveillance on you."

"Harold's a _genius_ when it comes to computers and gadgets," Reese put in proudly. "He can run circles around _any_ of the young kids on the Geek Squad!"

"Well, I don't know about _running_, John," Finch mumbled as he began sifting through the data stored on the phone.

"Senator, you were in the service, weren't you?" Reese asked over Finch's shoulder.

"Of course. In my day, it was hardly optional."

"Did you see action, then?"

"In Korea, yes."

"And when you were over there... could you sense the enemy's crosshairs on you? Like a high-pitched buzzing in your ears, or the hairs on the back of your neck standing up, warning you to take cover?"

Russwood shot Reese a piercing look as he answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact... There were a couple of times that I... I just _sensed_ the need to hit the deck. Nobody else had heard or seen anything, but... moments later, it was raining bullets. If I hadn't followed my gut, I wouldn't have made it out of there alive..." His eyes narrowed as he continued to stare at Reese. "You seem to know a great deal about it."

"Oh, I've read a great deal about it," Reese answered evenly, without flinching under the older man's steely gaze. "You see, Harold is a man of science, and will only believe in proven facts; but _I_ believe there's more to the human brain than meets the eye – that there are some people who have a gift, like a sixth sense, that warns them of impending danger. Call it a vestigial trace of our ancestors' survival instinct. If _you_ have that sense, or heightened state of awareness, you may very well be picking up on someone covertly watching you."

"And I may have the proof of it," Finch announced, looking up from the cell phone. "This phone has been hacked on multiple times, Senator, and all around six months ago. The hacker didn't steal any of your personal information – just your GPS locations."

While his wife gasped in concern, Russwood himself looked rather relieved.

"So I _haven't_ been imagining things!"

"I would say not. In fact, it's possible the culprit was checking where you were so he could plant surveillance devices in your house."

"Janet!" Mrs. Russwood exclaimed. "And Isabella!"

"Our daughter and granddaughter," her husband noted for his guests' benefit. "They're living with us, in our house. So they could be under surveillance as well?"

"Yes. I can't tell you what the threat level is with only this much information to go on, but perhaps it would be best to have them stay elsewhere – even join you here at the hotel – until we get to the bottom of this."

"You can send them over to our place," Havers offered immediately, the first indication that he had been listening to their conversation. "We'll have Matilda prepare the guest room for them."

"That would be marvelous!" Mrs. Russwood sighed, though still looking alarmed.

"Earl and Dotty are our neighbors in Sagaponack," her husband told Finch and Reese before calling his daughter on his returned cell phone. It took him a few minutes to convince her to leave their home so late at night, especially with her baby (Isabella had just turned two), but she was familiar with the Havers' house and agreed to take the precaution.

"So. Our girls are out of danger for the moment. What next?" the Senator asked Finch.

"We should do a thorough sweep of your house for bugs, and if possible track down where the signals are being sent. Ten to one they're being routed through several proxy servers, but it's at least worth a try. Of course, they may shut down the feed if they heard your conversation just now, but I should be able to find some history of their activity on your IP address."

"Do you have people that can get on it right away?" he demanded.

"Senator, it's late, and most of my employees are either off-duty or otherwise occupied," Finch said carefully. "But if you can wait until morning, I'll send my best man out to sweep your house." He turned to give Reese a significant look. "I'm sure he won't mind the road trip."

"I _adore_ road trips," Reese smiled. "And I absolutely _love_ the Hamptons!"

"Ah. I see," Russwood said, considering this. "In that case, you can ride out with me tomorrow. If there _are_ any devices lurking in my house, I would like to find them myself! Although god knows I've looked everywhere..."

"John is very good at what he does, Senator," Finch assured him. "He has a great eye for detail. It's one of the skills for which I hired him, and he's yet to let me down."

"Oh, _Harold!_" Reese murmured, calling up a blush.

"Meanwhile," Finch continued in a businesslike tone, "I'll see if I can't trace your hackers from the mainframe at my office. Given that we don't have a clear picture of what the hackers want, or why, or even who they are, I think it's best if we keep only necessary personnel in the loop. I may require some additional help in performing the trace, but I promise you that everything will be conducted in the strictest confidence."

"I appreciate that," Russwood said with feeling. "And honestly, I'm just glad you could tell that my phone was hacked! I feel much better knowing that my fears were not groundless."

"Fred... I owe you an apology," Elizabeth remarked, stroking his hand where it lay on the table. "But I didn't know about your sixth sense... You've hardly ever spoken about the war..."

"Some things... it's better you don't know," he told her, not unkindly, clasping her hand.

* * *

><p>The Russwoods' daughter called later to report that she had arrived safely at the Havers' house, which did allow her parents to relax somewhat. Finch, meanwhile, interviewed the Senator on any potential enemies who might choose to eavesdrop or monitor his activities. He dubiously named a few business rivals and one up-and-coming politician who had butted heads with him on policy, but shook his head in disbelief when pressed on the likelihood of any of them taking such extreme measures.<p>

"What about your son-in-law?" Reese asked. "Is he out of the picture?"

"What, Evan? I should think so, yes," Russwood retorted. "He's in a rehab facility upstate. Janet left him when she found out that he was doing cocaine, and soon after that he was arrested for possession. It broke his parents' hearts, of course, but it gave them the incentive they needed to get him into a good program. He's allowed to come home on the weekends and has supervised visits with Isabella every two weeks. But if you're asking if he could have organized something like this, I would say that's highly doubtful. The idiot doesn't have enough sense to avoid speeding when he has illegal drugs in his car!"

Finch made another note in his pocketbook, "check son-in-law Evan, drugs," and drank the last of his port. It was more than he wanted, especially after the wine, but because the Senator had insisted in buying their drinks on top of paying for their cover charge, Finch did not want to appear ungrateful. The live jazz band finished their first set about then, and as it was obvious that Mrs. Russwood, at least, was ready to turn in for the night, the party stood up to leave.

"John, I wonder," Finch began while walking towards the elevator, feeling significantly less stiff than he usually did. Reese had already slipped his arm in Finch's, not only as a gesture of affection but also to lend him some support.

"What, Harold?"

"I could use a breath of fresh air. Would you mind taking a walk around the block?"

"It might be a bit chilly without your coat, Harold – not that I mind, but I wouldn't want you to catch a cold..."

"Well, perhaps not the _whole_ block."

"All right. Maybe just to the corner and back."

"If it wouldn't be an intrusion," Russwood put in, "a brisk walk sounds like just the thing right now. I need to clear my head and re-think who might have done what you've suggested."

"By all means, Senator – you're more than welcome to join us," Reese told him, smiling sweetly. The Havers promised to see Elizabeth safely to her room, so the three men exited through the hotel lobby.

"I just love the city at night," Reese commented, maintaining a steady yet easy pace for Finch. "Especially with all the Christmas lights!"

"Do you have plans for the holidays?" Russwood politely inquired.

"Not yet. We usually play it by ear."

They came to a corner and Finch noticed a park further down that street, its trees lit up with lights.

"I think we can make it there and back, John," he said, patting his arm where it lay on his own. Reese could not help grinning with pleasure as they continued on their way, but a little further down, a figure emerged from the shadows of an alley, pointing a gun at them.

"Oh dear, Harold," Reese said mildly. "I believe this young man is committing a felony."


	11. Crime

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>"Yo' wallets and watches, bitches!" their assailant demanded, poking the gun menacingly in their direction.<p>

"Well, I _never!_" Reese huffed, removing his hands from around Finch's arm. "I may be a queen, but I'm _nobody's_ 'bitch'!"

"Shut the fuck up and gimme yo' fuckin' wallet!"

With another dramatic sigh, Reese pulled out his wallet, saying, "Well I just went shopping so there's not much left – not even a hundred dollars – but if you want it that badly, _fine_. Just take the cash so I don't have to cancel all my credit cards and go through _that_ fuss again!"

He unfolded his wallet and opened it up so that its contents were visible, then extended it towards the thief – whose gaze was now fixed on the cash as he took a step closer to grab it. In a move too quick to truly see, Reese grabbed the thief's arm and broke his right elbow and (before he even had a chance to scream) kicked the backside of his knee to blow out that joint. The would-be robber crumpled to the ground with barely a whimper.

Now holding the gun that the boy had used to threaten them, Reese crouched over him and pressed its muzzle to his forehead.

"You really need to learn how to use a gun, at least, if you're going to lead a life of crime," he advised the youth in his calm voice, not even winded from the exertion. "For instance, there's no point in having a firearm if you're going to move into hand-to-hand combat range. And also, if you intend to use your gun, you need to disengage the safety."

In the momentary silence, a chilling "click" was audible. The boy's writhing stopped as he froze in terror.

"Now, if you hadn't had the safety on, I would have assumed that you'd done this before and shot you immediately. As it is, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt – either this is your first time, or you're a complete amateur who won't go far in this business. So I'm not going to kill you, but I _am_ going to have a friend of mine at the NYPD pick you up. If you've actually used this gun before, you'll have to pay for those crimes, but I think you might still prefer that to being _dead_."

There was a brief, frantic motion of his head, indicating that he would very much prefer to live, while his wild eyes remained fixed on the gun.

"Good. But I want you to remember, every time it turns cold and your elbow and knee ache – and they _will_ ache, believe me – I want you to remember this night, and ask yourself if you really want to lead a life of crime, or if there's something else that you might rather do, like eat and breathe and sleep. Maybe even become a manager at a MacDonald's, or a carpenter, or a mechanic. I want you to think very hard about it, young man."

There was another, more prolonged trembling of his head. Reese took a step back and emptied the gun of its cartridge as well as the bullet in its chamber, then stuffed the useless piece of metal back into the boy's pocket. As he stood up he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

"_Hello?"_ came a grumpy voice from the other end.

"Good evening, Lionel. Have you missed me?"

"_You again!" _

"Yes, Lionel. I have a present for you, all gift-wrapped."

"_I'm with my kid right now." _

"Oh, all right, then – send someone else to pick it up. It's a juvenile offender that attempted to rob me at gunpoint."

"_...Stupid bastard." _

"He may need some medical attention."

"_You shot him?" _

"No, I didn't kill him, just taught him a valuable life lesson: Crime doesn't pay."

There was more swearing on Fusco's part before he took down the nearest intersection and promised to send a uniformed officer out to investigate. Reese hung up and told the gasping boy, "Stay right here until someone comes for you. If you cooperate with the police, they'll at least make sure that your arm and leg will heal up right."

The boy winced in pain but nodded. Reese turned back to Finch and Russwood, who had watched the proceedings in stunned silence.

"I believe I've had enough fresh air for tonight," Finch remarked blandly, and Reese repositioned himself on his partner's arm with a smile as they started walking back towards the hotel. Russwood followed almost automatically.

"That... You..." he began, his jaw twitching for a moment. Then with a "Huh!" he expelled his breath and regrouped. "So. You really _do_ know a thing or two about this... _security_ business."

"Oh... just a little," Reese smirked.

"I hired him initially to be the 'muscle' of my operation," Finch added. "It was only later that I learned of his... _other_ talents."

"And what might those be?" the Senator asked without thinking.

"Well, for starters... he's very good with his hands," Finch deadpanned. "And he can also find some... very _unique_ solutions to troublesome situations. Although I must say, I thought that last bit was somewhat... lacking in originality."

"What do you mean?" Reese asked, still in a good humor.

"Seriously, 'Crime doesn't pay'?" Finch queried, glancing at Reese with one eyebrow cocked.

"If it's good enough for McGruff the Crime Dog, it's good enough for me," Reese declared.

"I believe McGruff's slogan was, 'Take a Bite out of Crime.'"

"Oh... You're right. Well, it's still _true_. Crime really _doesn't_ pay, you know..."

Finch turned a wry smile to Reese.

"I think he got the message, anyhow."

Walking behind them, Russwood simply shook his head in disbelief.

* * *

><p>When the three of them were alone in the elevator, Russwood asked, "So, what were you? Green Beret?"<p>

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you, Senator," Reese responded, still smiling. "The important thing is, I'm on _your_ side now. What time would you like to leave tomorrow?"

"Nine o'clock. My driver can bring you back to the City when you're done."

"Sounds good. Goodnight, Senator. Please give our regards to your lovely wife."

Finch and Reese got off of the elevator arm-in-arm as Russwood watched them balefully. However, once inside their suite, Finch disengaged Reese's hands from his arm and led him to sit on the couch with him.

"I need to confess, I'm having second thoughts about this whole thing," he admitted. "If Senator Russwood were to expose us to the authorities—"

"He won't. Not yet," Reese replied. "He needs us to figure out what's going on first. As for my background, if he tries to dig any deeper, we could tell him the truth."

"The truth?" Finch echoed, alarmed.

"Yes. I think a man like him would appreciate how someone could become disillusioned from doing the government's dirty work. If he figures out that I'm using an alias, I'll just tell him that I was dishonorably discharged and am trying to hide it from our clients."

"I see," Finch said, though he still sounded unconvinced. "But I'm also concerned about the numbers... the numbers that we're missing right now..."

"Oh, Harold," Reese said, though not in the exaggerated tone which he had been using for his flamboyant act. He edged closer to Finch on the couch and placed an arm tenderly around his shoulders. "They do weigh heavily on you, don't they?"

"Yes... they do."

"But what's to say that the Senator's number isn't one of them? And even if it isn't, there's _something_ going on – something mysterious and possibly dangerous. Wouldn't it bother you if we didn't investigate it?"

"Yes, I suppose it would," Finch sighed. "I just wish... I hadn't drunk so much alcohol tonight. I'm afraid it loosened my tongue and made me say more than I had intended. If I hadn't told him that I work in security—"

"He might have been blackmailed, or worse, his granddaughter might have been kidnapped. I think the child's father should be our first focus."

"I agree – the Senator dismissed him too easily. Any man he would've allowed to marry his daughter would at least come from a good family, so he could very well have the means to arrange for this type of surveillance."

Reese drew even closer to Finch until their noses were almost touching.

"Well, now that we're in agreement as to our plan of attack," Reese whispered, "I vote for setting work aside until tomorrow and having some _real_ fun."

"Ah... What kind of fun would that be?" Finch asked, somewhat nervously.

"First of all, I want you to give me your shirt, socks, and underwear."

"But not my trousers?"

"No. Those you need to hang up with your waistcoat and jacket." Reese stood up and began stripping out of his own clothes. "The other things I need to wash tonight so we have something clean to wear tomorrow. I didn't see you bring an overnight bag, and I know _I_ didn't."

Finch gaped for a moment, then countered, "You don't need to do that, John – we can call Housekeeping and ask them to have them ready by morning."

"_You_ may be made of money, Harold, but _I_ don't like wasting it on frivolous things. Do you have _any_ idea what a rip-off hotel laundry services are? Especially when you consider that the shampoo and body wash in the bathroom are free? Not to mention how dry the air is from the heating system. It's actually better for our own health to hang up a few wet towels around the room. Trust me, everything will be bone-dry by morning."

Reese had removed his suit coat and trousers as he gave his little lecture, draping them on the back of a chair. Seeing that Finch was still hesitant, he teased, "Chop-chop, Harold! I have to finish the laundry before we can get to the _really_ fun stuff!"

Finally getting up to follow his demands, Finch undressed while Reese took the tags off of their new pajamas. It felt strange to put them on without underwear, Finch thought, but his briefs had already been confiscated by Reese and taken to the bathroom.

"Can you bring me a couple of hangers?" Reese called out over the sound of running water. When Finch arrived with the desired implements, he saw their socks and underthings already hung up to dry on the shower curtain rod. Their shirts were being efficiently wrung out by Reese who, once they were on the hangers, snapped the sleeves and sides to stretch out their wrinkles.

"There – hang these over the heater register, and by morning they'll look like they've been pressed," Reese assured him, going to do just that.

Left in the bathroom, Finch decided to brush his teeth and get ready for bed, although he could not help but wonder what their sleeping arrangement might be. The answer came as soon as Reese returned.

"I've turned down the bed in the other room – we should at least _try_ to make it look like we stayed in separate rooms, right? And I'll use the other bathroom tonight. Just make yourself comfortable and I'll join you in a little bit."

Since Reese said this with a seductive smile and one finger trailing across Finch's shoulder, the smaller man had no doubts as to what sort of "fun stuff" was to ensue; what he didn't know was how ready he felt about it, but before he could voice his doubts, Reese had breezed out of the bathroom again.

Finch lay in the king-sized bed and waited, wondering what Reese was doing in the bathroom as he heard some unidentifiable noises.

_At least all of our previous... activities... have been pleasurable,_ Finch reminded himself, trying to take deep, calming breaths. _He won't hurt me... If I ask him to, he will stop._

Despite all of his efforts, Finch still flinched when Reese opened the bathroom door and turned off the light. He continued to inhale slowly while Reese slipped into bed beside him and took him into his arms.

"Harold... You're not nervous, are you?"

"Ah, yes. I would have to say that I _am_ nervous. A little bit."

"Don't be. I'll be gentle, I promise," Reese breathed, leaning in to place a soft kiss on his cheek. Finch attempted to return the kiss, but gasped instead as he felt Reese's hand slide in under the hem of his pajama top, then down into the pajama bottom. "Well, it's obvious that you aren't ready for this yet," Reese murmured with some amusement, "but let's see if we can't get you in the mood with some... _encouragement_."

Finch could not stop his breathing from becoming more ragged as Reese used deft movements to stroke his manhood, and his pulse – which he knew Reese could feel in the veins of his growing organ – began to race with the anticipation of being brought to climax. Reese continued to slide his slender fingers up and down his partner's hot member while with his other hand he unbuttoned both of their pajamas.

"I've wanted you for so long, Finch," he moaned against his chest, where he then planted wet kisses.

With one last sigh, Finch expelled all of his remaining doubts and prepared to enjoy whatever Reese had in store for them.


	12. DELETED Union

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	13. Candor

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>After a cursory greeting with the driver (to whom Russwood explained Reese's presence only as a "consultant") the former Senator raised the privacy partition in the limousine. It was a good two hours' drive to his house in the Hamptons, and Reese wondered which of them would prove to be the better interviewer, since the elderly gentleman's mind was still sharp and his eyes did not seem to miss anything.<p>

"So. John. Westerton, is it?" was Russwood's opening gambit.

"Yes," Reese replied with an enigmatic smile.

"You and Mr. Smith are... what? Partners?"

"He's my employer, but I like to think that we work well as a team."

"I see." Russwood paused and glanced out of the window at the already-bustling city. "So what exactly is the name of your company? 'Smith and Westerton'?"

Reese burst out laughing. "Ha! I hadn't thought of that... That's purely a coincidence, I assure you. We both have so many aliases that it's hard to keep track of them, let alone coordinate them deliberately."

Russwood stared at him for a moment, astonished, but mostly because he had not expected such candor. Reese returned his gaze with a wry grin.

"Mr. Russwood, I won't insult your intelligence by playing this charade _ad nauseum_. But I'm hoping you will excuse us if we wish to maintain a degree of... anonymity. We really were on vacation yesterday, not planning on getting involved in anything of this nature, so I have to confess that I'm not as well-prepared as I usually am. But we're both committed to solving this mystery for you to the best of our abilities."

"What are you? FBI? CIA?" the older man asked bluntly.

"The CIA has no operations within the United States," Reese answered in a sing-song tone, as if by rote. "And I don't think the FBI would get involved in personal cases like this, unless they were trying to infiltrate a criminal organization. You don't happen to own a criminal enterprise, do you?"

"No," Russwood huffed.

"Well then. Suffice it say, Harold and I are _not_ law enforcement."

"What are you, then? Private contractors? Mercenaries?"

Reese remembered the expression that Finch had first used to describe himself.

"More like... a concerned third party," he smiled. "We help people, Mr. Russwood – people like you who find themselves the target of some nefarious criminal plot. Ordinarily, we take on cases where the victims are powerless to defend themselves. _You_ are not powerless, of course – you have the means to hire a private contractor to investigate this situation. However, if there is even the remotest possibility that your granddaughter is at risk, I would rather investigate this myself and make sure that it's handled properly. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night if I didn't, and neither would Harold."

Russwood's eyes narrowed as he mulled over this information.

"So... what _are_ you, then? Some sort of... crime-fighting vigilante?"

"You could say that."

"And when you help the helpless, do you expect payment from them?"

"No. Although I daresay Harold might send you a modest invoice for our services, seeing as how you can afford it."

"But then... where do your funds come from? If you aren't law enforcement..."

Reese chuckled. "Oh, that's not a problem – Harold has more money than God."

Russwood pondered this in silence for a while, giving Reese a chance to look at the scenery outside. They were quickly leaving the congestion of the City behind.

"So. You're like Batman and Robin, only without the outlandish getup," Russwood finally commented.

"I suppose so," Reese replied, amused. "Only Harold is like the Boy Wonder and Alfred and Q from the James Bond movies all rolled into one."

Russwood eyed him for a moment before stating, "You really love him, don't you." It was not a question.

"Yes, I do," Reese answered, unabashed. "He's an exceptional man – kind, compassionate, and generous. I owe him my life, possibly even my soul... if I still have such a thing."

"So you really were a borderline alcoholic?"

"Yes. I was even contemplating suicide when Harold found me. I no longer work for the government, Senator, but I did its dirty work long enough to lose all faith in the System. And oddly enough, I still had enough of a conscience left that my evil deeds were torturing me. What I do now... is something of a penance."

"I see," Russwood murmured. "I've seen enough of war to know what you're talking about. There were things that I did, under orders, that... well. I suppose I did my penance by trying to represent my constituents' interests."

Reese nodded. "There are very few people who can honestly say that they have no regrets in life. But some of us know... exactly how heavy a human life can weigh on one's conscience."

"And what about your Harold? What drives him to give of his wealth, however boundless it may be, to help the weak and downtrodden?"

"I can't say for sure... There's much about his past that he hasn't told me," Reese admitted. "He's haunted by it, and by the knowledge that he could have helped more... and failed, or was powerless, to intervene. But I think ultimately he cares for the good of mankind."

"He hasn't told you what motivates him, and yet you still love him?" Russwood pointed out.

"Yes," Reese smiled, with genuine warmth. "Because I know who he _is_, inside. I know that he's a good man. I know he would do everything in his power – he _is_ doing everything in his power – to help and protect the innocent. And despite his best efforts to put up a cool, dispassionate façade, he really is human. _Adorably_ so."

He wondered if such effusion would unsettle the elderly gentleman, but Russwood took it in stride.

"So... your clients. How do you find them?" he asked, changing the subject, though not from discomfort.

"I can't tell you that – partly because the technology is beyond my comprehension. But let's just say that... Harold has figured out a way to eavesdrop on certain devices – searching for keywords that would indicate plans for serious, violent crimes – that allows him to predict who will be involved."

"Eavesdropping! That sounds illegal."

"It _is_ illegal," Reese assured him cheerfully. "That's why we operate under aliases. If the government ever caught on – or even the local police – we'd be arrested and thrown into a bottomless pit, never to be seen or heard of again. We'd like to avoid that if at all possible."

Russwood gaped at him for a full minute.

"And yet... you would risk all that, just to help...?"

Reese inclined his head. "Like I said, it's our penance," he said softly.

"When you could take off to some foreign country – somewhere warm, where there's no extradition – and live a life of ease?"

"Well... perhaps that will become a necessity in the future," Reese considered, "in the event that the authorities close in on us, or one of us becomes seriously injured. But it's more likely that we'll end up dead, bleeding on the street or stuffed in some dumpster in a back alley."

Russwood was amazed by the peace in Reese's eyes.

"I don't know how you do it," he said flatly.

Reese's mouth curved into wry smile. "Senator, when you were in Korea, in the few moments of quiet when you weren't marching or under fire, what – or who – did you think about?"

"My girl back home," he confessed. "Not my wife – she came along later – but my high school sweetheart. I dreamed of coming home and holding her again, of having a real Thanksgiving dinner..." He returned his penetrating gaze to Reese. "I see what you're saying... Harold is your rock, your anchor."

"Yes. As long as we have each other, we're invincible."

* * *

><p>Finch was left standing on the curb, feeling (to his own surprise) rather forlorn after seeing Reese and the Senator drive off. He had never required Reese to keep his earpiece with him when off-duty, knowing he could always contact him through his cell, but now found himself seriously considering changing that. Neither of them could have predicted that they would have become involved in this new assignment, of course, when they were supposed to be having a "spa vacation," but it vexed Finch to not be able to stay in constant communication with Reese as he usually did when they were working a case. He was even limited in how much he could eavesdrop through Reese's cell today, for the stupid reason that he had forgotten to bring their chargers to the hotel.<p>

As he rode a cab to an intersection near the library, he began making a mental list of devices to pack in an emergency kit, which grew to include first aid supplies by the time he had settled himself into his chair and turned on the monitor. His first order of business, however, was to delete or corrupt the video surveillance footage from around the hotel last night, so that should the police choose to investigate them for evidence of the attempted burglary, there would be nothing to identify the man who had turned the tables on the small-time thief.

Watching the footage of the street, seeing Reese in action from a different angle, Finch appreciated anew the smooth, seemingly-effortless movements of his body, the skill and efficiency with which he had incapacitated his opponent. And then he remembered how those same hands – so deadly when required to be – had caressed him with such tenderness, touching him in ways that he had never been touched before...

Finch found it necessary to make use of the facilities, and realized with some irony that if Reese had been wearing the earpiece today, he might have needled him as to the reason why he had turned off his microphone for so long. Not for the first time, he wondered if it had been wise to promise the other man nothing but the truth.

* * *

><p>Once the Senator's curiosity about them had been satisfied, Reese asked him more in-depth questions about the men he had listed as candidates for wiretapping or monitoring his house. None of them seemed to have enough motive to go to such lengths, so he then turned the focus of his questioning to the daughter's husband. He discovered that the couple were, indeed, in the process of filing for a divorce, and that the man was fighting furiously to retain his rights to see his daughter.<p>

"But why would Evan want to spy on me?" Russwood said in some exasperation. "Sure he could get the funds for it – I can't imagine that his father would cut him off completely – but what could he hope to accomplish by it?"

"I'm not sure," Reese answered frankly. "It's just that... I know from experience that most violent crimes involve people who know each other, and a marriage turned sour – especially when there are children involved – can make people do strange things. For instance, was this divorce your daughter's idea, or yours?"

"I think Janet is smart enough to decide on her own what's best for her," Russwood replied, somewhat defensively. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out that a man doing cocaine and God knows what other drugs isn't going to be a good father for Isabella."

"No. But tell me, Senator: if you were brutally honest with yourself, would your daughter have gone so far as to file for a divorce if you hadn't expected it of her? Or would she have stayed with her husband, hoping that he would get clean and turn his life around?"

The older man opened his mouth to reply, but something in Reese's steady gaze made him reconsider. He replayed a hundred memories, it seemed, all of his daughter and how happy she had been in the early years of her courtship with Evan, and even into their marriage. How she had defended her husband when he had criticized Evan's lack of financial savvy. How she had always hoped for the best in people and thereby had aspired some of them to become better than they had expected themselves.

"You... You might have a point," he finally admitted. "So are you saying, Evan might blame _me_ for the divorce? Even though he'd practically nailed his own coffin by getting involved in drugs?"

"Drug addicts are rarely rational people," Reese pointed out. "Even though he's been placed in rehab, he may still resent being forced to get clean – the very thing you, your daughter, and his parents meant for good, he may consider a hardship... maybe even harassment. He may not view the divorce as a logical outcome of his own behavior. But first, we need to see if he's really the one who's set up surveillance on you – or even if _you're_ the target of it. It may be that your daughter or granddaughter is the real target."

"You mean he might try to kidnap Isabella?" the Senator demanded in alarm.

Reese shrugged, trying to put the man at ease. "It's possible. It certainly wouldn't be the first time an estranged parent chose desperate measures to keep their child. But we shouldn't get ahead of ourselves – first we need to see what kind of equipment has been set up in your house."

Russwood nodded in agreement, and they rode in silence the rest of the way.


	14. Investigation

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Detective Carter was working her way through a mountain of paperwork – her least favorite part of the job – when a uniformed officer stopped by her desk.<p>

"You're Carter, right? The one looking for a Mystery Man in a suit?"

"Yeah, that's right. What? You got a lead on him?"

"Maybe. We got a tip last night about an armed robbery gone bad – some witness called it in from a pay phone – and went to pick up this kid. He tried to rob three suits and ended up getting his ass kicked instead. We just brought him back from the hospital after he got patched up for a dislocated knee _and_ a broken elbow. Anyway, kid says one of the suits done it to him, and told him he would'a shot him dead if he hadn't left the safety on. Told him to find some other line of work, too, if he didn't wanna end up a piece of garbage on the street."

"Did he say anything else about the guy?"

"You can ask him yourself if you want. He's downstairs – we're waiting to see if his gun matches any previous crimes."

Carter made her way down to the interrogation room and sat down across the table from a young black boy, still probably a teenager, who was trying hard to look tough with his arm in a sling and his leg in a big brace.

"I'm Detective Carter. You said a man in a suit did this to you?"

"Yeah. He moved like lightning, man – he had, like, crazy ninja skills," the kid mumbled.

"What did he look like?"

"Tall. White guy. Maybe forty? I dunno... I just thought they looked like easy marks, y'know? They were all wearin' suits, so I figured they'd have some serious coin. Didn't expect him to be, like, all Kung Fu master... 'Specially since he was hangin' all over this other guy like some man-whore."

"'Man-whore'?" Carter echoed, her voice going up with incredulity. "The tall guy?"

"Yeah! He was actin' all faggy 'n' shit, then he just grabbed me and broke me bad. He preached at me an' tol' me to wait for the cops. Next thing I know, he's leavin' with his john, all arm-in-arm and gay as hell."

"This other guy, did you get a good look at him?"

"I dunno, just some old white guy. Not as old as the other guy, though – the third one, he had white hair, so he had to be, like, _real_ old. But he looked loaded, and the john looked loaded, too. He was wearin' one of them fancy suits with a... a vest underneath."

"You mean a three-piece suit?" Carter confirmed, taking notes.

"Yeah, one o' those!"

"What else do you remember? Any jewelry, tattoos..."

"Nah, I didn't see nuthin' like that. They didn't look the type for tattoos, y'know? But they were wearing watches – expensive-lookin' ones. Oh, and the john, he was wearing these geeky glasses. Black plastic frames, y'know? Like all them computer geeks wear."

Carter scribbled furiously as she nodded and encouraged him to go on. "What else? Did you hear them call each other by name?"

The boy thought for a moment, squinting as though it would help him remember. "Oh, yeah! I think so... The big guy, he called his john... Gerald? No, wait... _Harold!_ Yeah, that's what he said, when I first walked up to 'em. He was all cool-as-shit, and said, like, 'Oh, Harold, I think this young man is going to commit a felony!' Then he told me to take his cash but leave his cards, 'cuz he didn't want to mess with changin' those. I figured I'd just swipe the dough and get their watches, but he grabbed me as soon as I reached for the cash."

One of Carter's eyebrows had shot up involuntarily when the boy quoted Reese, since he had raised his voice to mimic the man's distinctive speech. _That's my guy,_ she thought, gritting her teeth.

"You did real good," she told the boy. "I'll tell the other cops that you cooperated, all right? This guy that banged you up, he's a real badass – a dangerous man, you understand? He's ex-military, I know that, but he's gone rogue or something. He'll just as soon shoot people as look at them, so you're lucky to be alive. I need to find him and get him off the street. If you remember anything else about him or the guys he was with, I want you to give me a call, okay?"

She gave him her card and he took it, nodding.

"Say, uh... can I call my mom? She'll be gettin' off her shift pretty soon, and she'll be worried if I'm not home..."

Carter sighed, gave the boy a short lecture on not breaking his momma's heart, then left the precinct to see the scene of the crime (or attempted crime) for herself.

* * *

><p>Reese found it somewhat disconcerting to have Russwood following his every move as he swept the house for bugs and cameras, but he knew the man was just trying to learn how to protect himself and his family, so he did his best to give him pointers.<p>

"These flower arrangements – are they done here by your house staff or brought in from a florist?" Reese asked, picking up a vase of lilies and inspecting the glass pebbles in the bottom.

"I don't know – my wife handles that sort of thing," Russwood admitted.

"If they're brought in as arrangements, it's possible for someone to place a camera in these," Reese said, pointing to the pebbles. "Thankfully these are all clear, so I can see that there isn't a device inside, but if they were opaque or even colored, I'd have to look them over one by one."

"Would a camera work, submerged in water like that?" the older man asked in surprise.

"Oh, sure! Not a microphone, of course, but a camera would work just fine – the glass would camouflage the lens and make it the perfect hiding place."

As they slowly moved through each room, Russwood was impressed with the attention Reese paid to every detail. He ran his fingers over the frame of a mirror to check that none of its rococo filigrees were grafted on, checked each stud around the bases of a pair of candle sconces, and peered into the unused keyholes of the entertainment center cabinet with a penlight.

It wasn't until they arrived in the study – the place where Russwood said he felt the most uneasy – that Reese actually found something. It was a small jade ornament carved into a stylized lion, set up on the mantelpiece.

"Was this a gift?" Reese asked, peering into the open mouth.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. It was given to us by an old friend on our twenty-fifth anniversary. Charles had built factories in China before it was a common thing to do, and used to bring back some choice pieces of jade."

Reese picked it up carefully and weighed it in his hand.

"I'm sorry, but it seems your friend's gift has been replaced with a fake. Feel how light this is – it's a heavy resin replica – plastic – with a little lens here. The color's been simulated by marbling the lighter colors, then painting the darker shades over them. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to make this."

In utter shock, Russwood examined the piece and had to agree with Reese.

"The camera was trained at my desk, wasn't it?" he asked grimly.

"Yes. Which makes me wonder..." Reese looked over the desk and picked up the cigar box, then tapped across the lid with his finger.

_Tap tap... tap tap... tup tup... tap tap... _

"What the—?"

"May I?" Reese asked, pulling out a pocketknife.

"By all means!"

Tapping the lid again to ascertain where the hollow sound was coming from, Reese proceeded to cut into the wood and peel off the thin veneer, revealing a narrow chamber beneath the surface. He pulled out a black strip of wire with a thicker barrel at one end, but no bigger overall than a matchstick, and set it gently on the desk.

"Well, hello," he whispered at it.

"Is that... what I think it is?"

"Yes. I think I'll call Harold now." But first Reese rolled the device until he found some marks on it and took a picture with his cell phone. Sending it to Finch's e-mail, he called the library's phantom landline.

"There you are, Mr. Reese."

"Hi, Harold. Guess what I found?"

"A microphone, just as we'd expected. Where was it?"

"In the cigar case. I also found a camera in a fake jade lion, but that may be harder to extricate."

"I'm sure you'll find a way. How is our client holding up?"

"Shocked, but vindicated," Reese replied, exchanging glances with Russwood.

"Well, I'll get working on this serial number now, but I'm afraid there hasn't been much movement in the son-in-law's bank account – unless he has a hidden account offshore, which I haven't ruled out yet. Any other leads?"

"None that have sufficient motive to go to all this trouble. But I'll keep looking."

"All right. I'll call you if I can trace who purchased this mic."

"I'm sure you will. Oh, and Harold?"

"Yes, John?"

"If I ever get seriously maimed on the job, could I convalesce in the Hamptons? Somewhere with a view of the ocean?"

There was only a slight pause before Finch answered, "Of course. I'll add that clause to your benefits package."

* * *

><p>Russwood took Reese to his workshop in the basement, where he said he "tinkered" now that he was retired, and assisted him in cutting apart the fake jade statue. It was a tricky operation since they wanted to keep the camera equipment intact as much as possible, but in the end they were able to remove it with only a slight nick in the lens casing. After sending photos of the serial number to Finch, Reese resumed his sweep of the house.<p>

He took extra care in the nursery, beaming his penlight into the eyes of each stuffed animal and doll, while Russwood struggled against his rising panic at the thought that his granddaughter might be in danger.

"Are there any toys that she especially likes? Maybe ones that her father gave her?" Reese asked.

"There are a couple of stuffies that she absolutely loves. Janet would have taken them with her so she wouldn't fuss. I don't know if any of them came from Evan..."

"I'll need to see those," Reese said, turning to inspect the light fixtures and furniture.

"Of course," Russwood agreed, "but why don't we have lunch first? I told Elizabeth to take our girls and the Havers out to our favorite restaurant – if we hurry we might even meet them there."

Luckily, they did, and the restaurant was able to seat them at a table next to the others. After being introduced to Janet, Reese crouched down to Isabella's eye level and immediately got his nose grabbed by the little toddler. Seeing him grin at her baby set Janet's mind somewhat at ease, for she had spent a restless night wondering about what was happening at her parents' home, but learning that Reese had actually found those devices did not help anybody's digestion. However, Russwood assured his wife and daughter that if any devices were still hidden, John would find them.

"I would never even have _thought_ to look in some of those places," he said, shaking his head.

"That's because cameras – especially with transmitters – used to take up more space," Reese put in. "Now they're so small that they can escape detection very easily."

"But _you_ still managed to find them," Russwood pointed out.

Reese leaned back as the waitress brought out his clam chowder. "Actually, I just look around the room and think, 'If I were a bad guy, where would _I_ put it?' I don't know what it says about my character that nine times out of ten, I find I've chosen where the _real_ bad guy put it..."

Everyone chuckled at Reese's wry smile.

"Why did you go first for the cigar box, though?" Russwood wanted to know. "Out of all the things on my desk, you zeroed in on that at once."

"That's simple – most people have a favorite brand, so all the culprit had to know was what brand and how big of a box you usually order, then get the same kind. It would be hard to tell the difference between two boxes from the same company, and a cigar box is small enough to carry, even hidden under a jacket. Everything else on your desk is too personal to switch with a replica – you would have noticed right away. The jade lion, though, was situated far enough away that you didn't notice the forgery, plus it had a convenient open mouth for the lens."

The others had already finished their dessert by the time Reese and Russwood's entrees were brought out, but they lingered over their coffee to keep them company. Only Reese noticed the man sitting in a corner booth, pretending to read a newspaper but watching their every move from behind his tinted glasses.


	15. Identification

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Finch had hacked into both the microphone and camera manufacturers to find, in their databases, where those serial numbers had been shipped to; from there he hacked the distributors' files to determine which stores; then he hacked each store to find the date and time they had been purchased; and finally, he obtained the video footage from when those purchases were made. The man in the grainy black-and-white feeds was wearing a baseball cap on both occasions, keeping his face well hidden from the cameras.<p>

_A professional_, Finch realized, noting that the man had paid with cash both times. _I should call Mr. Reese to warn him..._

He had almost pressed the speed-dial button when his logical mind pulled him to a stop.

_And tell him __**what**__, exactly?_ he demanded of himself. _He already knows, from where and how the devices had been placed, that he's not dealing with an amateur. If I call him now with what I have – which is, for all intents and purposes, __**nothing**__ – he would tease me to no end! He would probably insinuate that I was calling just to hear his voice..._

The circuits in his brain flared with a power surge, leaving him nearly breathless.

_Oh, dear God... I __**am**__ trying to call him just to hear his voice! I was ready to jump on any excuse, just to talk to him... _

Swallowing hard, Finch reached for his headset and put it on.

_It's past noon already, so I'll just check in for a little bit to see how he's doing... It won't take up __**that**__ much battery power... _

Feeling unusually guilty for listening in without Reese's knowledge, Finch remotely activated his partner's cell and caught his conversation with the Russwoods and the Havers at the restaurant.

"...should try it sometime. I can work out some of his knots, but it's hard to get him to relax when he's always _so_ busy," Reese was saying. "I barely managed to drag him away for half a day yesterday, and it was our _anniversary!_"

Finch could hear a woman ask something in the background.

"Nine years. It hardly seems possible! But they've been nine _wonderful_ years – I wouldn't trade them for anything. Of course, next year is the big one, so I'm going to _insist_ that he take a week or more off work so we can go somewhere really _special_. I've always been fond of Paris, but since it's rather late in the season, we may go to Côte d'Azur instead."

Russwood's voice, somewhat fainter than Reese's but still audible, mentioned that it was a nice time of year to visit Monaco.

"That sounds lovely! I've only been there once before – only for two days – but I made Harold _promise_ to take me back again. It's time he made good on his promise, don't you think?"

The lilt in Reese's voice, while not quite as pronounced as it had been on the previous evening, made Finch's lips pull into a half-smile. Reese was into his gay persona, albeit slightly subdued since he was there on business. While listening to their chatter, Finch looked up some of the most exclusive hotels in Monaco and considered making a reservation for next year.

_If we're still alive by then... it truly __**would**__ be a feat worth celebrating_, he thought. After deliberating for a minute more, he pulled up his calendar and programmed it to remind him, two weeks before the day that Reese had arbitrarily set as their tenth anniversary, to make those reservations.

_Actually, I suppose it __**will**__ be our anniversary – our first_, he realized.

* * *

><p>Isabella had fallen asleep in her grandmother's arms as they waited for Reese and Russwood to finish their meal. Reese assured them that their house was safe enough to return to, figuring that the baby would rest better in her own room.<p>

"There are a few more areas that I need to check, but whoever planted those devices already knows that we're on to them," he said quietly. "It's highly unlikely that they will attempt anything right now – either they will try to regroup and set up another plan of attack, or they might give it up altogether. But I may need your help in spotting things that are out of place – you would know better if something belongs there or not."

Glad to be going home, the Russwoods thanked the Havers for their hospitality, and of course the Havers said not to mention it, although Earl asked his friend to keep him posted on the developments.

"It's not often that you find yourself in the middle of a mystery," he said to the Senator.

"It's not as exciting as they make it out to be," Russwood responded with a droll expression.

* * *

><p>It was not exciting to review security camera footage, either, especially when it was in a small utility room of a hotel, cramped even more by the presence of the on-duty guard and the Customer Relations Manager; however, Carter had a hunch that the Man in the Suit might have passed by the front of the hotel – in view of their camera – so she had persuaded them to let her see it. When they got to the timeframe that the young thief had been injured, they were startled by the video feeds turning to snow. It lasted over thirty minutes, blocking out any view they might have had of the people passing by on the street.<p>

"What the _hell?_" the guard gasped, backing up and replaying the video in vain.

"Looks like my guy hacked into your system and deleted the footage," Carter said with an irritated frown. "But isn't it interesting that this happens on the footage _inside_ your hotel, too... as if he might have been inside... maybe even stayed here..."

"Are you saying that one of our _guests_ could have beaten up the thief?" the manager asked incredulously.

"It's possible... Can you fast forward the tape to this morning, when people start checking out?"

The guard complied, slowing down the footage when the guests began to leave.

"We're looking for a tall guy... not heavy... wearing a suit," Carter coached them. Even fast forwarding through the video, it was a tedious task, with Carter asking him to back it up at times to get a better look at someone. Each time they resumed, her sighs grew heavier.

"Wait! These two – this guy is pretty tall. Do you have this from another angle?"

"There's this shot over here, but these are the only two cameras we have in the lobby..."

"Well, can you zoom in on the guy he's talking to? Looks like he's wearing a three-piece suit..."

When the guard complied, Carter's jaw dropped.

"That's _Little Guy!_" she burst out, then began to swear, furiously and vehemently, under her breath.

"Uh... You know him?" the manager asked.

"Yeah. I know him," she replied, her brows knit together in a grim scowl. "He almost had me believing that he was a _victim_ – an innocent bystander – but if _this_ is my guy," pointing to the backside of his taller companion, "he must've been in cahoots with him all along! Back this up and play it for me slowly, would you? I wanna see what they're doing."

The guard started replaying it from when the two men appeared in the lobby.

"Okay, so they're waiting to check out... Little Guy gives Suit Guy something... Can you stop it and zoom in? Looks like a piece of his cell phone... must be the battery or the memory card... All right, keep going... Suit Guy puts it in his pocket..."

What happened next caught all three viewers completely by surprise. For, as they watched in stunned silence, "Suit Guy" leaned closer to "Little Guy" and kissed his cheek.

"Oh. My. God." Carter breathed. "Did he just...?"

"It certainly looked that way..."

The guard backed it up again.

"And Little Guy just stands there..." Carter muttered. "_Damn!_ Wouldn't'a pegged Suit Guy to bat for _that_ team... Guess the kid was right, after all... Wait, who's that? The older guy they're talking to..."

"Uh... that is one of our... very _esteemed_ guests," the manager said uncomfortably.

"You know him?"

"Yes... That is former Senator Frederick Russwood."

* * *

><p>Reese offered to carry the baby's diaper bag when they left the restaurant so that Janet could more easily carry her sleeping child. He also took the opportunity to glance at one of the stuffed animals – an elephant wearing a pink tutu – and confirmed his suspicion that one of its glass eyes was hiding something more sinister in its depths. As the Russwoods got into their limousine, he also saw (reflected in the car window) that the man from the corner booth had emerged from the restaurant as well. Reese immediately reached for his sidearm when he saw the man pull something out of his breast pocket, but it was only a cell phone.<p>

Slipping into the rear cabin after the Senator, Reese closed the door and took a few pictures though the tinted glass of the man as he walked away, talking on his phone.

"Senator, do you recognize that man?"

"What, him? No, I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

In lieu of answering, Reese turned to the driver. "Can you go around the block and drop me off on the other side? I want to check something out." He returned his gaze to the receding figure and told Russwood, "It won't take long, I promise."

When the limousine rolled to a stop, Reese jumped out and ran to the next corner, then stealthily looked around a tree to see that the man was still talking on his cell, getting ready to enter a car parked on the street. He was fumbling one-handed with his keys, his back turned to Reese, so it was not hard to sneak up on him.

"...but it's obvious that he means trouble for both of us! Why can't you just—"

Reese knocked the cell out of his hand and grabbed his other arm to pin it behind his back in an unnatural, uncomfortable position, pressing him against his car.

"Just what, Evan?" he whispered in a threatening undertone, quickly checking that the man was not carrying a gun. "Send one of his goons to kill me?"

"Y—You can't d—do this, it's not—_**OW!**_ You're hurting me! L—Let go!"

"The Senator and his family seem to be under the impression that you're in a nice rehab center upstate, not wearing a cheap disguise and following them around." Reese pulled off the sandy brown wig to reveal a blonde head of hair beneath. "Now, I'm no lawyer, Evan, but that sure sounds a lot like _stalking_ to me..."

"_**Evan?**_" Russwood cried out from the corner, having slipped out of the limousine to follow Reese. "What are you doing here?"

"Obviously being a naughty boy and skipping rehab classes," Reese said blithely. "I think a more interesting question would be, who were you talking to just now, and why were you helping him plant cameras and microphones in the Senator's house? Not to mention in your own daughter's stuffed elephant."

Evan made one last attempt to break free from Reese's iron grasp, but quickly learned that any resistance on his part only led to an application of intense pain on Reese's part, and sagged in defeat against the side of his car.

"I... I just wanted to get Jan back... and Bella... I _need_ them back, damn it!" he spat out, bitterness infusing every word.

"Well, if that's all you wanted, why didn't you just _ask_ them?" Reese put in reasonably.

"Because _he_ wouldn't let me get near Jan to explain... it was all a big mistake! I was clean when I got pulled over by the cops, and those drugs weren't mine! They were planted – by _him_ – so I'd be locked up and never get custody of my Bella!"

Reese had kept one eye on the former Senator as his son-in-law spewed forth his accusations, and judged the older man's outrage to be genuine.

"I find that hard to believe, Evan," Reese said in a soothing voice. "It would be very risky for a man in his position to even get his hands on illegal drugs. I would actually be more suspicious of your friend on the phone... Maybe he wanted you to _think_ that the Senator had framed you, and in return for his help, he expected you to give him detailed descriptions – pictures, even – of the things in your father-in-law's office. It would've been easy enough for you switch the cigar box and jade lion when you went to see your daughter."

From the way that Evan's body suddenly grew still, Reese knew he had made his point. Releasing him, he picked up the cell phone from where it had landed in the grass. The call was still on.

"Hello, Evan's friend. My name is Your Worst Nightmare," Reese spoke softly into the receiver. There was no answer except an electrified silence. "I don't know why you wanted Evan to kidnap his own daughter and demand a ransom from the Senator, but if you ever approach any of the Russwoods or Evan again, I will find you. I will hunt you down, and make sure that you'll never be able to hurt anyone, ever again."

Reese ended the call and handed the cell back to Evan.

"I think it's time we all had a little chat, don't you?" he suggested mildly.


	16. Confession

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Reese drove Evan's car back to the Russwoods' mansion, while Evan stared sullenly out the window of the passenger seat.<p>

"So, what _are_ you?" Evan finally asked when the silence became unbearable. "Some kind of private eye? Or a contractor that Fred brought in to impress Jan?"

"I don't think Mr. Russwood had anything other than his family's safety in mind when he contacted my employer," Reese answered. "He kept feeling like he was being watched, so he hired us to check his house for unwanted surveillance devices."

"Huh. I guess Jan was right – the old man _does_ have eyes in the back of his head... or some weird sort of sixth sense..." Evan's gaze wandered over to the steering wheel. "You're not wearing a ring," he said bluntly. "Did Fred pick you to do this job? It wouldn't be the first time he's tried to set Jan up with someone else..."

Reese could not suppress a smile. "Evan, you have nothing to worry about – at least, not with regards to your wife. I'm already in a _very_ committed relationship. In fact, Harold and I were celebrating our anniversary yesterday when we happened to meet the Russwoods."

"'_Harold'?_"

Reese nodded. "My employer, partner, and the love of my life."

Before Evan could fully digest the impact of this statement, they pulled into the Russwoods' driveway.

Once in the house, Reese set out the remnants of the jade lion and cigar box (along with their respective devices) on the coffee table in the living room, along with Isabella's stuffed elephant. Janet returned from putting the baby in her bed and was startled to see the toy there.

"This has a camera in its eye," Reese explained for her benefit. "May I cut into it to remove it?"

"Bella _loves_ her Elly... but of course. We can always buy her another," Janet answered.

Evan kept his eyes planted firmly on the pattern of the rug as Reese extricated a camera with a transmitter, took its picture, then sent it to Finch.

"Are there any more, Evan?" Reese asked. "I assure you, I'll find them all, but you can do yourself a favor by helping us now."

Evan pursed his lips for a moment, then nodded. "The clock... in Jan's room. I replaced it with the same clock, with the same inscription, only... it's got a camera and mic in it."

"Evan! How _could_ you!" Janet gasped. "That was a wedding gift from Aunt Doris!"

Reese left them to argue and went to get the clock. When he returned, Evan was still pleading his case, claiming to have been clean of drugs at the time of his arrest; however, when Reese set the clock down, its back removed to show the wires of the added devices, he fell silent.

"Regardless of your drug use or lack thereof, Evan," Reese stated, "you need to explain why you would do _this_."

"I—I _had_ to," he stammered, "to make sure Fred wasn't telling Jan more lies about me! I knew he wanted her to find someone else – oh, yeah, you made it obvious right from the start that you didn't approve of me!" he bit out at Russwood. "I just had to know that she... she wasn't seeing anyone else... until I could prove what you'd done..."

"You're right that I wasn't thrilled about my daughter marrying you," Russwood replied, a hard edge to his voice, "but I hardly had to _frame_ you for an arrest to get you out of her life – you'd already done a good enough job of that yourself! And if I'd known that you'd been using illegal drugs, there never _would_ have been a wedding, believe me!"

Reese cut off Evan's bitter retort. "Give me your cell phone," he said, extending his hand. "We need to know more about this 'friend' of yours who helped you plant these bugs. I think he preyed on your fears and suspicions, Evan, to accomplish his own agenda. We have to find out what that agenda is."

Leaving Evan to chew on that thought, Reese called Finch.

"_Hello?" _

"Hi, Harold – I'm calling from Evan's cell. The last number dialed was to his 'friend' who helped him install the surveillance devices."

"_I'll run a trace on it right away. How did you get his cell?" _

"I found him stalking the Russwoods in the restaurant, and... _persuaded_ him to join us and make a clean breast of it. I'll turn the speaker on so you can hear what he has to say, too."

Placing the cell phone in the middle of the table, Reese sat down across from Evan and stared at him until he finally heaved a sigh and began to talk – how he had met the man, Carl Banks, at a friend's bachelor party and bought some cocaine from him; how sympathetic Carl had been about his trouble with his father-in-law and interested in the Russwoods in general; how Carl had "supported" him after Janet had discovered his cocaine habit and moved back to her parents' house; and how Carl had suggested planting surveillance devices in the home and coached Evan on what objects to replicate and replace, after installing the devices for him.

"I just thought... _Carl_ thought, that if we could listen in on what you guys were saying, we could get the proof that Fred had planted those drugs in my car and told the Sheriff to pull me over that night. I mean, I was only going five miles over! It _had_ to be a setup..." Evan insisted.

"Oh, I believe you, Evan," Reese told him smoothly. "I just think it was _Carl_ who set you up, so that in your desperation you would agree to plant these devices for him. After all, you were the perfect 'inside man.' But what were you planning to do? Kidnap Bella and hold her for ransom? Then take the money and Bella and escape somewhere where there's no extradition?"

"_**NO!**_ No, of course not," Evan cried, shocked. "I would never put my baby girl through that! Besides, I... It wouldn't be good for Bella to... be separated from her mom. And I would _never_ do that to you, Jan – please believe me!"

Janet pursed her lips and did not answer. She had been weeping wordlessly for most of her husband's confession.

"Jan," he pleaded, trying to catch her eye, "I would _never_ hurt Bella! And I'd never put you through anything like that, either. I know I've let you down... I should've known better than to ever do drugs... and I'm sorry. I'm clean now, Jan, honest! I'll never touch that stuff again!"

She was not ready to answer, torn between wanting to believe him and being forced to acknowledge what he had already done. In the tense silence, Finch's detached voice came through on Evan's cell.

"_I've found Carl Banks, a.k.a. Carl Herschel, a.k.a. Carl Vogler... the list goes on. He's a professional con man, wanted in connection with several fraud investigations along the East Coast. There's also a case in Maryland where he was suspected of aiding and abetting a woman, who had lost custody of her children, to kidnap those children and demand a ransom from the father's family... In that case, he made off with the cash while the mother was arrested for parental kidnapping." _

Reese looked questioningly at Evan, whose face had drained of all color.

"H-He never said anything like that!" he protested. "I wouldn't've _let_ him! Please, you have to believe me!"

"He could have kidnapped Bella and made you an accessory after the fact," Reese pointed out. "What would you have done if he'd brought her to you? Of course you would've taken her, if only to take care of her – you wouldn't have left her in _his_ care, I hope! But the question is, Evan, if you would have brought her back here, to her mother, where she belongs... or if you would have kept her – safe, of course, but still illegally – until you'd gotten the ransom."

"Look, I have no _need_ for the money!" he cried. "I'm not as rich as my father, I'll admit that, but I have enough to get by! It's not the _money_ I want, it's my _wife_ and _child!_"

Reese regarded him for a moment longer, staring into his open, distraught eyes, then turned to speak to Russwood.

"I tend to believe him, Senator. Now, if you still want to report him to the police, I think that's a decision that you need to make as a family," he said, with a meaningful glance towards Janet, "but as far as this Carl character is concerned, I promise you that we will find him and turn him in to the proper authorities. You should probably hold on to these devices to use as evidence against him."

Russwood had just nodded in sober agreement when his cell phone rang. He took it out and frowned at the display.

"It says someone from the NYPD is calling. I'd better take this... Hello?"

"_Hello, Senator Russwood?" _

"Yes."

"_I'm Detective Carter with the NYPD. Sir, I know this may seem strange, but I happen to know that the man you left the hotel with this morning is a dangerous fugitive." _

"Is that so?" Russwood said, one eyebrow raised as he looked at Reese. "I suppose you already know about the attempted mugging last night?"

"_Yes, sir. I don't know what he told you or why you chose to leave with him this morning, but if you stay in his company, you may be placing yourself in grave danger." _

"Well, Detective, I'm very grateful for your concern, but I'm well aware of his... unique talents. And actually, I asked him to investigate some... other threats upon my person, which he has quite capably eliminated. So if you don't mind, I'll decide for myself whom to trust. Good day, Detective."

"_Sir—!" _

Cutting her off, Russwood nodded at Reese.

"She saw us leave the hotel this morning."

"Harold, if she saw _that_—" Reese began, directing his words to the cell phone.

"_I'm on it, John. I didn't delete that footage because I didn't want to call attention to the fact that we stayed there. Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on our friend to be so... thorough." _

"She's a good cop, Harold. Although I'd like her a lot better if she didn't keep trying to arrest me..."

"_Arrest __**us**__,"_ Finch corrected. _"I'm afraid she's already called my... former employer. I'll take care of damage control. I'm sending you the contact information for my attorney, in case she decides to arrest me. I'm also transferring some funds into your account so you can post bail. I do hope you'll send Charles to get me before too long. Prison beds are not known to be... kind to back injuries." _

"Harold, what are you going to _do?_" Reese asked, slightly panicked.

"_I have an idea. It may not work, but she bought my 'innocent victim' act once already – we'll see if I can pull it off a second time. Oh, and the car is waiting for you at the southeast corner outside of the Russwoods' driveway. No need to tip the driver." _

"Harold... be careful."

"_I will, John." _

"I love you."

Finch paused, knowing that the entire Russwood family was still listening to their conversation.

"_...I love you, too, John. Don't worry, I'll be all right." _

* * *

><p>Finch wished he could believe that, for he felt anything but all right as he limped towards the apartment where Carter had first met and interviewed "Mr. Burdett." He had left his suit jacket, vest, and tie at the library, hoping to create a more casual impression as befitting a paralegal who had run out to the store for some groceries. He had stopped by the nearest store to pick up those groceries and had – almost on a whim – tossed a box of condoms and a bottle of personal lubricant into his basket as well. When he approached the building, he saw that Carter was waiting for him in a parked car.<p>

"Mr. Burdett," she called, running up to him as he fumbled with his keys. "Can I give you a hand with that?"

"Ah... Thank you," he said as she took the paper sack he was holding. "Detective... Parker?"

"Carter."

"Oh, yes! Of course. I'm sorry, I'm terrible with names," Finch said apologetically, managing to turn the key. "Ah... Please, come in. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Mr. Burdett... I'd like to ask you a few questions about the robbery down at lockup..."

"Again?" Finch queried, turning to face her with one eyebrow raised. "I don't mean to be rude, Detective, but I really don't see what else I could possibly remember..."

"We have some new evidence we'd like you to look over," Carter said, handing him back the sack of groceries.

"Well, if you think it will help," Finch responded, placing the sack on the kitchen counter before removing his coat. As he draped it over a chair, Carter took a grainy black-and-white picture out of her folder and showed it to him.

"Do you recognize this man?"

It was a still photo of himself with Reese, whose back was turned to the camera.

"John? Of course," Finch replied.


	17. Conversation

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>"You know him?" Carter asked again, just to be sure.<p>

"Yes, of course – you can see that I'm talking to him there." Finch frowned and looked more closely at the photograph. "Where did you get this? It looks like... like it's from a surveillance camera..."

"You're right. We got it from a hotel lobby. This morning," Carter said, watching his expressions closely.

"You can _do_ that?" Finch asked, both eyebrows raised in shock. "Isn't that... well... an invasion of privacy?"

"We've been tracking this man because he's extremely dangerous," Carter explained, her eyes never leaving Finch's face. "He's wanted in connection with several murders."

"Murders! No... You must be mistaken," Finch declared. "You have the wrong man, Detective – John is a kind, gentle soul. He would never hurt anybody, let alone _murder_ them!"

"Mr. Burdett... Harold, isn't it?" Carter asked, which he acknowledged with a nod. "We have reason to believe that this man was one of the gang that robbed the evidence lockup. In fact, I think he's the exact same man that grabbed you and supposedly threatened you."

Finch let his mouth drop open.

"_**John?**_ No, it's not possible! There must be some mistake, Detective – it _has_ to be a case of mistaken identity! This is just... _preposterous!_"

Carter noted that Finch had not reacted at all to the word "supposedly" which she had used on purpose. He seemed to have missed that she had as good as accused him of perjury, so intent was he on clearing the other man's name.

"So tell me, Mr. Burdett, how do you know this... John?" she asked.

"Well, since you have that picture, I'm assuming that you've already seen the hotel security tapes from this morning... so I'm sure you realize that John and I are... romantically involved. We met a few weeks ago, at a bar. In fact, it was right after the robbery..."

Finch glanced up at Carter, as though struck by the coincidence, but did not comment on it.

"I know it's a bad idea, mixing alcohol with my drugs... I've been taking some very strong painkillers ever since my accident, and my doctor has warned me not to drink. But after that incident, I just needed something to... to take the edge off. I suppose I wanted to forget the whole thing... I don't deal with stress well, I know. But anyhow, I went to the bar around the corner for a drink, and happened to meet John there. We started talking, and found out that we had a lot in common – favorite books, that sort of thing – and John... Well, he offered to give me a _shiatsu_ massage."

Here Finch blushed, quite naturally, as he remembered how intimate their first massage (only yesterday) had become.

"Detective... Ms. Carter..." he began, as though groping for words. "Have you ever suffered from chronic pain?"

Carter gave him a wry smile.

"Does childbirth count?"

"Oh, ah... I suppose so. I really wouldn't know," Finch hedged, then regrouped. "What I wanted to say is, I don't normally invite strangers that I've met at a bar to come into my home. But John was... John was _different_. There was just... something about him. And that night... he spent over an hour, just working out all the stiffness and tension from my body. Do you have any idea what a _gift_ that is? To be given such relief from the pain – something that has hounded me every minute of every hour, every day since my accident – and he hardly asked for anything in return..."

Here Finch blushed again, for the memory was still new and vivid – he could almost feel how warm Reese's hands had been upon his private member.

"He understood my needs, Detective, and he fulfilled all of them," Finch continued, keeping his gaze on the kitchen counter. "As much as I hate to admit it, my physical limitations are... quite inconvenient. More so in certain situations than others. But John has been willing to take the time, and the care, to accommodate my... challenges. He's a very attractive man, as you know – he could have anyone, absolutely _anyone_ he wanted. And yet he's kind enough, and patient enough, to spend his time with me. He is, quite simply, an exceptional man."

Finch turned to meet Carter's thoughtful eyes.

"He simply _cannot_ be this... murderer, or criminal, that you think he is. It's just not _possible_."

"What if he came to you, and did all of this, because he felt bad for roughing you up during the robbery?" Carter asked quietly. "What if he's gone to such lengths to ease his guilty conscience?"

"No... No, you don't understand," Finch responded, showing some aggravation. "I stared into the eyes of that man – the robber – and thought I was going to _die_. I thought, I was staring into the eyes of Death himself. They were cold, and cruel, and... ruthless. The eyes of a killer. I'd never understood what that meant before, but in that moment, I _knew_. He would have killed me with no remorse if he thought I posed any sort of threat. John..." Here he inhaled deeply, having run out of breath in his eagerness. "John's eyes are warm, and kind. They... They light up when he laughs. They practically _sparkle_ when he's joking. And he's so... so _caring_. You have no idea..."

Finch trailed off with an expressive shrug.

"Does this 'John' have a last name?" Carter asked.

"Westerton. John Jacob Westerton. He said he was named after his two grandfathers."

"How often have you been seeing him?"

"As often as his schedule allows," Finch answered. "Sometimes he has to go out of town for work, but he calls me every night, just to ask how my day went. We've gone out for dinner a couple of times. Sometimes we just get take-out and... he stays here. I'd say I see him about four or five times a week."

"He stays here? Overnight?" Carter said, unable to hide the note of excitement in her voice.

Finch nodded, unconcerned. "Yes, when he can. And then yesterday was... special. He wanted to take me to a fancy hotel (as you know) and treat me to a spa retreat. We soaked in the Jacuzzi for... goodness, it must have been an hour! I dozed off for a while... And then he spent another hour just rubbing my back, and even gave me a pedicure and a foot massage... I must admit, I've never been so pampered in all my life! And then we had dinner upstairs, at a _very_ nice restaurant, and on our way down to the jazz club, we met former Senator Russwood."

"Oh! So you met in the elevator?"

"Yes. Well, actually, John had met them earlier in the day when he'd run out to go shopping – I was practically comatose after my massage, so he decided to check out the Mary Kay convention downstairs for some... 'retail therapy.' Apparently he'd met the Russwoods on his way back."

Carter whipped out her notebook and began scribbling.

"Go on. What did he talk about with the Senator?"

"Well, Mr. Russwood asked John what he did for a living, and John explained that he installs electronic surveillance equipment – I don't understand all the technical jargon, but he does high-end security systems, you know... very discreet cameras set up around people's homes, like if they suspect their nanny of being abusive. That sort of thing."

"Huh," was all Carter said as she continued to jot down notes.

"Mr. Russwood was concerned that someone had set up unwanted surveillance devices around his home – he said he'd been feeling 'watched' for some time, and asked John to come out to see if he could find anything of the sort. His house is in the Hamptons, so I'm not expecting John to come home tonight..."

"I see..."

"Detective... you'll keep this information confidential, won't you? I don't know how the Senator would feel if he knew I was telling you all this..."

"Of course. I'm not interested in the Senator's problems, real or imagined, to be honest," she stated. "I'm more concerned with your friend John, and with making sure that he doesn't hurt any innocent people."

Finch stared at her for a long moment before stating, "Detective, I can assure you, John simply isn't _capable_ of hurting anyone! He's too... _kind!_"

Carter set her jaw in a grim scowl and returned, "Mr. Burdett, _I_ can assure you, your friend is _very_ capable of hurting people, and has on many occasions. In fact, he just left a would-be mugger with a broken elbow and injured knee last night. You were with him when he went outside the hotel, weren't you?"

"Yes, we took a little walk after we left the jazz club, before we went upstairs," Finch said, trying to look calm. "And yes, a young man jumped out of the shadows and pointed a gun at us. But he was a complete amateur – at least, that's what both John and Mr. Russwood said. John distracted him by showing him the money in his billfold, and then easily disarmed him."

"Disarmed him?" Carter asked pointedly, her eyebrows rising.

"Yes, he just grabbed the gun out of the boy's hand. Apparently, the boy hadn't even turned off the safety switch, so there was no way it could go off. I suppose it must have scared the boy when John pointed the gun back at him and warned him not to choose a life of crime... He told him that someone else might have shot him with his own gun, and that crime really doesn't pay. Then Mr. Russwood said he would call the police, and the boy tried to run away, so John had to tackle him and knocked him out. He may have gotten injured in the scuffle, but that's hardly what I would call 'violence.' And at any rate, _he_ was the one who'd threatened us first, so it was only self-defense!"

"So then, if you had nothing to hide, why did you leave?"

"We didn't have our coats with us, Ms. Carter. We hadn't planned to be outside for very long, so we only had our suit jackets on, and it was getting cold. Mr. Russwood assured us that someone would come by shortly to pick up the young man, so we thought it would be safe to leave him there. Although... truth be told, I think Mr. Russwood wasn't very keen on getting... embroiled, in that sort of situation. You know how the media would pounce on a story like that, especially with a well-known politician involved – even if he _is_ retired."

"So you're saying that it was the Senator's idea to leave the kid and go back into the hotel."

"Well, we all agreed to it, so if anything happened to the boy before the police arrived, then I suppose we're all culpable, but... Is he all right? You said he was injured, but it's nothing serious, is it?"

Carter pursed her lips for a moment before telling him, "He'll live. He may have a limp to match yours, Mr. Burdett, and he'll never become a professional athlete, but he'll live."

"I see..." Finch murmured, looking somewhat concerned. "Well, he really should have considered the risks before he chose to assault three men at once. But I suppose if he were high or whatever, he wasn't capable of making good decisions to start with..."

"Mr. Burdett... if you're so sure that your friend – Mr. Westerton – has nothing to hide, would you mind setting up an appointment for me to meet him? In person?"

"Of course," Finch replied with no hesitation. "I'm sure once you meet him, Ms. Carter, you'll realize that this has all been a terrible mistake! He's a wonderful man... warm, compassionate... He would never hurt a fly."

"I look forward to meeting him," Carter said with grave sincerity.

"I'll ask him tonight when he plans to be back in town – he had no idea how long it would take to inspect the Russwoods' house to the Senator's satisfaction, but I'm sure he'll be happy to clear up this... misunderstanding."

"Actually," Carter asked, "would it be all right if I called him myself? Could you give me his cell phone number?"

"Oh... Well, I suppose it would be all right... He _is_ working on a project, you know, and with a client like the Senator, I would hate to distract him... But as long as you respect his time, I suppose he won't mind..."

"I'll wait until after five to call him," Carter promised.

Finch wrote it down, from memory, in her notebook.

"One more thing, Mr. Burdett – I called your firm earlier, and they said that you were no longer working for them."

"Yes, that's right – I tendered my resignation a week ago. I've decided to sit for the bar exam."

"Oh! Well, good luck with that."

"Thank you. I was slated to take it when I was in the accident, just two days before the exam," Finch explained. "It took so long to regain my motor skills, and I've never been a very good test-taker, so I've kept putting it off... John finally persuaded me to go for it. He's been coaching me with some of the questions, making it into a game so I won't be quite so nervous about it."

Carter thanked him for his time and left. As soon as she was inside of her car, she dialed the number for Reese's cell phone.


	18. Confrontation

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Reese had continued his sweep of the Russwood mansion, even after Evan swore that all the devices he had planted were exposed.<p>

"You might not be the only one who was planting them," Reese pointed out, and conducted a thorough search. It did not turn up anything else, but Fred Russwood (who followed him around for the duration) was grateful for the peace of mind that it provided. As Reese re-entered the living room to say his goodbyes to the rest of the family, he was glad to see Evan holding Isabella, who had just gotten up from her nap.

As soon as he had settled into the limousine that Finch had sent, Reese checked his cell phone, hoping for a message from Finch and disappointed to find none. He was tempted to call him, but knew that if Finch were still dealing with Carter, a call from him was the last thing he needed. He wondered _how_ innocent Finch was going to play for the detective – she had obviously seen the footage from the hotel lobby, so she must also have seen Reese lean in to kiss his beloved partner. There was no use denying their involvement.

_Would he pretend to have not recognized me from the robbery? Or that he'd recognized me, but got involved with me, anyway? No... that would be too twisted. It would be best for him to deny any knowledge of my criminal activities. He's just an innocent bystander who doesn't know what I really do. But then, why would __**I**__ have gotten involved with him? Sex? Well, I guess that's possible... if I were some sick pervert who got off on remembering how frightened he'd been... But it's more likely that I approached him to make sure that he wasn't injured too badly during the robbery. And then... I fell for him. Yeah, why not? He's sweet, smart, adorable... a bit shaken up and vulnerable, so I'd feel protective of him, but with plenty of good qualities to keep me coming back for more. So, he's an unplanned complication... a liability... Ha! I sound like Finch now – I'd fallen in love without planning to. Carter's gonna take me for an amateur, or at least think I'm getting careless. Maybe I should've just let that kid take our money... _

Despite his concern for Finch, however, he couldn't stop the warm feeling in his chest from spreading as he remembered how Finch had (in the hearing of the entire Russwood family) declared his love for him. It had meant so much when the reticent man had admitted it in the privacy of their hotel room – Reese was not ashamed to acknowledge that it had been a life-changing occasion for him. But it was also singularly satisfying to hear Finch say those three words in front of an audience... under duress, perhaps, or out of necessity, but saying them nonetheless and with feeling. It had been a long time since Reese had felt so helplessly, recklessly, even giddily happy; in fact, it had been over ten years.

Reality would not allow him to bask in that happiness for long, however. His cell phone rang, and the number calling him was not Finch's.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Mr. Westerton. If that's really your name."

"I have many names, Detective Carter," he answered calmly.

"So it would seem. I hope this isn't a bad time for you – _Harold_ only gave me this number on the condition that I would respect your time," she said, placing a special emphasis on the name.

"Not at all, Detective. I am entirely at your service." Reese lay back against the leather upholstery and tried to relax. "So... you've met Harold."

"Yes – a very nice man, but too trusting. He swears that you aren't capable of hurting a fly."

Reese smiled at the irony of Finch acting like a gullible fool.

"I find his trusting nature to be one of his more... _endearing_ qualities."

"And one that you're willing to exploit?"

"Now, Detective – there's no need to be rude," Reese chided, though mildly. "I'm sure _Harold_ doesn't have any complaints."

"Not yet, anyway... until you decide that he's too much trouble, or too big of a risk, and dump him. He thinks the world of you, you know – you'll break his heart."

"Well, we all take risks, Detective..." Reese said evasively.

"_I_ find it interesting that you decided to take such a big risk with Harold," Carter needled. "If you just wanted to make sure that he was all right after the robbery, why keep sleeping with him? For that matter, why sleep with him at all? I'm sure his injuries must make it rather... _challenging_."

Reese knew she was trying to sound out the depth of his emotion for the man, to ascertain whether he was truly in love with Harold or merely using him. Her derogatory tone in referring to Harold's injuries was a way of getting a reaction out of him, but he would not take the bait – he needed to pretend (at least as long as he could) that he did not have any feelings for Harold, in an effort to protect him.

"I'm a very patient man, Detective – I've learned the value of biding my time. And Harold is... not without his special charms."

"I see... so if I were to take him in for questioning?"

"You would get nothing of value out of him, of course. I only take calculated risks, Detective... I would never give an amateur – a civilian, really – any information that you could use against me. Although if you could find out what he would like for Christmas, that would be helpful; I've been having trouble deciding what to get him."

"So you want to continue seeing him?"

"Detective Carter, _must_ you be so tiresome? Of course I would prefer to continue our mutually convenient arrangement, but if you're somehow able to requisition a twenty-four-hour surveillance team to put on him, I will dispense with the formalities of a break-up and simply disappear from his life. He is... expendable."

"I wonder how _Harold_ would feel to hear you say so."

"Why don't you save me the hassle of breaking his heart, and do it for me? I'm assuming you've recorded everything I've said – it should be easy enough to replay it for him, and watch his fragile ego shatter before your eyes."

Carter was _not_ recording the call, and mentally kicked herself for not thinking of it. However, she still trusted her instincts when it came to reading people – even over the phone.

"You're bluffing," she said bluntly. "You may be good, but nobody can inspire that sort of devotion without at least exposing a piece of themselves. And after all the time you've spent together? He may be a pushover, but he would've seen through you by now if all you wanted was a convenient fuck-buddy. People with disabilities are highly sensitive to being used or taken advantage of, 'Mr. Westerton.' And if all you wanted was an impressionable, trusting sort of man to have sex with, you could've chosen any number of guys here in the City – even younger, more attractive, and completely healthy men. So why would you keep coming back to _Harold_, unless you actually have some feelings for him?"

When Reese could not answer right away, Carter smirked in triumph.

"What I really wonder is how long you could keep yourself from intervening, if I were to enter Harold's house and tie him to a straight-backed chair, then pull his head back with a rope or towel, just a fraction of an inch at a time, until he was screaming and begging for mercy. If he doesn't have any useful information, I guess I would just have to keep doing it until he gave me every last bit of _useless_ information—"

"Do you have family, Detective?" Reese said in a cold, hard tone. "Because if you so much as _touch_ Harold, I'll hunt them down—"

"So much for not caring, huh?" Carter interrupted, relieved to know that she had won this round, at least. "The truth is, you _do_ care about Harold. Probably more than you ever intended to. Maybe you've been on the run for so long that the chance to be with someone – even for a simple conversation over dinner – was too much to resist. Maybe getting him to trust you enough to let you touch his body, even around his injuries, is some sick sort of game for you. Or maybe, you've just grown so tired of the isolation and loneliness of being on the lam that you want to pretend, even if you know it can't last, that you're a normal person who has someone to go home to. Maybe, for all of your training and skills, you're just _human_."

Reese closed his eyes and let his head roll back on the seat. He had known that the façade of his indifference would have crumbled sooner or later, but this was sooner. And the insights it had revealed to Carter were far too accurate for comfort.

"Ms. Carter... I'm going to assume that you have a family, or at least some people that you care about. Think of them and consider what I'm going to say: Leave Harold out of this. He's off-limits." Reese took a deep breath. "Please."

There was a pause as Carter _did_ consider her family, and in light of what she knew Reese to be capable of.

"Detective, since we first met, I haven't killed anybody that didn't deserve it," Reese continued. "Even some people that _did_ deserve to be killed, I didn't. I'm asking you to take that into consideration. I'm not a threat, Detective – I'm just trying to help people in trouble. My methods may not be sanctioned by any law enforcement agency, but I'm getting real results. Sure, I understand that you still need to arrest me, and if I slip up and you catch me, that's only fair. But please don't drag Harold into this. He's just a... a very sweet man who happened to open up his heart to the wrong person. I never meant for it to go on so long... I never meant to hurt him. And it _will_ hurt him if I'm forced to disappear from his life, but no more than it will hurt me. I'm asking you to let this go, for the sake of the last shred of humanity that he's rekindled in me." Reese licked his lips before adding, quietly, "He's all I have worth living for."

Carter's brow furrowed in dismay. _And __**he's**__ all __**Harold**__ has worth living for, too..._ she realized. After a minute, during which Reese could hardly breathe, she sighed.

"Damn it, I can't do this! Not for _your_ sake, you understand, but for _his_," she clarified. "I still want to see you in cuffs, but I don't want to see Harold put through the wringer any more than you do. But I'm warning you, if you ever hurt _anybody_ with your vigilante stunts, I _**will**_ go after Harold. If nothing else, you'll have to come to the precinct to rescue him, and I'll be waiting for you."

"Fair enough, Detective," Reese conceded, relieved.

"Are you done with your job for the Senator?"

"Almost. Once I find the perpetrator, I'll hand him over to you. The Senator has a good portion of the evidence against him."

"_Or_, you could give me his name and I'll bring him in myself."

"Tempting, but no thanks. I've already given Mr. Russwood my word that I would handle this matter personally. But I'll try not to shoot the culprit if at all possible, Detective."

Carter sighed deeply. "I suppose that's the best I can hope for at this point." She caught some movement in one of the apartment windows, and glimpsed Finch pulling off a large book from his shelf.

"It's not so bad, is it, Detective?" Reese was saying. "I do most of your work for you, and you get to lock away some bad guys."

"I just wish you were what you've told Harold you are," she said wistfully. "You _could_ just settle into a normal life like that, you know – run a business, help Harold take his bar exam, live together and have a happy, ordinary life..."

"Raising prize-winning geraniums, no doubt," Reese added dryly.

"Geraniums are nice. The kind of guns you use, not so much."

"But then, who would go around duct-taping the bad guys for you, Detective?" Reese chuckled. "Anyhow, as delightful as it has been to talk with you, I need to get going."

"I suppose you'll be calling Harold to assure him that this was all a big misunderstanding."

"That's my plan, yes."

"Well then, I'll let you go – for now. Harold just bought a box of condoms, so you wouldn't want to disappoint him, now, would you?"

"...Detective, I think you've invaded my privacy – _our_ privacy – quite enough for one day."

Carter snorted in amusement as the call was disconnected.


	19. DELETED Communication

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	20. Date

TGetting Closer

* * *

><p>While Finch excused himself to go clean up in the bathroom, Reese did the best he could in the car with his handkerchief. The dark spots on his trousers would not come out, though, and he knew it wasn't just because they were still damp.<p>

_Guess I'll have to take these to the cleaners_, he thought. A contented smile crept across his features as he decided, _But it was __**definitely**__ worth it!_

He could hear a subdued Finch return to the desk, replace his headset, and start tapping on his keyboard.

"How are you doing, Harold?"

"I'm fine, of course, just..." Finch groped for the right word. "...a little overwhelmed, I think."

"Have I been pushing you too fast?"

"No... No, I don't think so. I'm just not... accustomed to... this sort of thing."

Envisioning how Finch was blushing at that moment sent waves of warmth through Reese's body, all the way down to his toes.

"You're going to _have_ to get used to 'this sort of thing' soon, Harold. I'll make sure you do."

"I'm sure you will."

There was a slight note of amusement, perhaps even anticipation, in Finch's voice.

"What are you doing now?" Reese asked.

"Well, in case you've forgotten, I'm tracing the recent activities of a certain Carl Banks. If we can find a pattern to his movements, it should be easier to track him down..."

"I'm sure you can, Harold. And then we can turn him over to Detective Carter – that should distract her a bit from chasing after _us_, I hope."

"That would be... helpful..." Finch trailed off, before taking a rather deep breath and beginning anew. "Mr. Reese, I was wondering... I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but... I think we should keep things more... professional, when we're working a case."

"How so?" Reese asked, although he felt he knew already.

"Well, I think it would be best if we referred to each other by our surnames – whatever alias we're using at the time – while we're in contact with a... client. Although I do realize, most of the time we don't _have_ a client..."

"You don't want people to hear us whispering sweet nothings to each other?" Reese said with exaggerated disappointment.

"As I've mentioned before... I'm still new to all this, John. I'm simply not comfortable with... public displays of affection."

"Like when the Russwood family is listening in?"

"_Especially_ when a family like the Russwoods is listening in, yes. By the way, however did you explain Detective Carter's interest in us? Although the Senator did seem to take it in stride..."

"I'd given him an overview of what we do – nothing specific, of course, and I didn't tell him anything about _how_ we find the people we help, but he's a smart man... He realized that some of our actions wouldn't land us in the good graces of the local authorities."

"I see... Well, you know how I feel about... informing people about our... operations..."

"It was a judgment call – I realize that, and I'm willing to take responsibility for it, but I thought the Senator might get suspicious of our cover, especially after what he saw last night. Giving him at least a portion of the truth made it much easier to work with him... fewer questions in the long run. Incidentally, are you going to charge him for our services?"

"I wasn't planning to. Why?"

"Just wondering. I think he was expecting a hefty bill, at least when he first contracted us, so to speak."

"Well, as the only cost involved so far is our time and your current transportation, I think we can let it slide. I'd rather not leave a money trail for Detective Carter to follow, in case the Senator changes his mind about protecting our anonymity."

"Speaking of Carter, since I didn't have to post your bail – kudos to your award-winning performance – you should transfer that money back out of my account before I'm tempted to spend it," Reese reminded.

"I suppose so..." Finch mumbled, somewhat distracted as he typed on his computer.

"We're coming into the City," Reese told him. "Stop-and-go traffic now..."

"Yes, I see... Mr. Reese, I was, ah... wondering, if you would care to... join me for dinner."

"Tonight?" Reese asked, as though it made a difference.

"Well, yes," Finch said awkwardly.

"For a business dinner, or... are you asking me out on a date?"

"...The latter, Mr. Reese," Finch answered, his even voice betraying no emotion.

"Well in that case, yes, I would _love_ to," Reese replied, reverting to his overtly-gay persona. "I thought you would _never_ ask, Harold!"

"I never imagined I would be, either," was Finch's dry comment.

"Will I need a tie this time?"

"I don't believe so. But you may wish to bring a change of clothing..."

"Oh! _Harold!_ You naughty man..."

"Me? _'Naughty'?_" he protested. "_You're_ the one who made me... stain my trousers, Mr. Reese. I need to take these to the cleaners now."

"Well, if it's any consolation, I stained mine, too."

Reese could hear Finch's breath hitch in his throat.

"I see... So in that case, I should pick you up at your apartment after we've both changed."

"All right. Do you need directions?" Reese facetiously asked. Of course he knew that Finch knew exactly where he lived, as well as when he moved to a new location, which he did quite often.

"I believe I can find it, Mr. Reese. I'll pick you up at a quarter to seven on the corner in front of the drugstore."

"I can't wait, _Harold_."

"Ah... And I'll bring your pajamas with me."

"As well as the... _other_ items I left with you?"

"Yes, o—of course..."

Finch flushed as he glanced at the shopping bag on the floor, remembering some of its contents.

"I'll be looking forward to it, Harold," Reese's mellow voice curled around his ear before he ended the call.

* * *

><p>Since Reese didn't have an overnight bag, he simply packed everything he owned (which was spartan) into the pilot's case that he'd bought after being hired by Finch. There was actually room to spare in it now, since he was carrying the soiled suit over his shoulder and wearing another. When he left the apartment, there was nothing in the rooms to suggest that they were even inhabited, let alone by what manner of man. He stopped by the dry cleaner's store down the street before returning to wait for Finch at the designated corner. He didn't wait long, as the other man arrived a bit early, also, and popped the trunk open for him.<p>

"I see you've brought all of your earthly possessions," Finch remarked as Reese sat down in the passenger seat.

"Almost. Call me an optimist, but I'm hoping that you won't want to let me go after tonight," he grinned.

"Do you mean to tell me, last night wasn't your A-game?"

"Hardly, Harold – I was only getting warmed up," he assured him, one hand wandering over to leave a trail of warmth along Finch's thigh.

"John... please don't distract me when I'm driving," Finch murmured.

"I'll try, Harold, but I've missed you so much..."

Reese leaned closer to place a gentle kiss on the other man's cheek before fastening his seatbelt.

* * *

><p>Finch drove them to a high-end Chinese restaurant near Park Avenue, where Reese's eyebrows shot up in wordless surprise as he took in the opulent décor. He also noted that the <em>maître d'<em> recognized Finch immediately. They were led to a private dining chamber with a table large enough for ten but set for only two, and his suspicions were confirmed when the waiter arrived with a genuine smile and the greeting, "Mr. Crowe! You bring a friend today!"

"Ah, yes... Liang, this is John – John Westerton, my... business associate."

Reese smiled pleasantly at Liang, who asked him for his drink order; he had already brought out a steaming pot of tea for Finch, as though he knew from past experience what his customer would order.

"So... do you come here often?" Reese asked when the waiter had left them.

"I assume that's a rhetorical question," Finch responded, "or a rather over-used pickup line. I assure you, John, you needn't bother with the... usual intricacies of seduction. I'm what would be called a... 'sure thing,' I believe."

"That's nice to know," Reese said, placing a hand over Finch's where it rested on the table. "It takes a great deal of pressure off. But it makes me sad to think of you coming here, all by your lonesome, to eat a delicious meal in this beautiful setting, and nobody to share it with."

"Well... at least that's not the case tonight," Finch said, nervously glancing at their overlapping hands. His first impulse was to remove his, but he did not want to offend Reese. Thankfully, Reese slipped his hand off as soon as he sensed the waiter approaching again.

"No book today, Mr. Crowe?" Liang asked with a twinkle in his eye as he set out menus in front of them.

"No... I have much better company," Finch said, trying hard (and failing) not to blush.

Reese insisted that Finch order his "usuals," so he selected the Crispy Duck appetizer and Shrimp Spring Rolls, with Seafood Delight Soup for both of them. For their entrées, he chose the Baked Bass for himself and recommended the Orange Beef for Reese. Since they were secluded in their private room, Reese shamelessly stole bites from Finch's plate, laughing in delight when Finch worked up the nerve to retaliate. Even Finch could not help the rare smile that broke out on his face as he realized, with some shock, that he _was_ happy.

"Well, this is the best Chinese food I've ever had, Mr. Crowe," Reese declared after savoring another bite of his tender beef. "Of course, it may have something to do with the fact that it isn't served in a cardboard box."

"Possibly," Finch replied dryly. "I _am_ rather fond of this place... I've heard people argue that you have to go to Chinatown for authentic Chinese food, but I must admit, I'm not usually that adventurous – especially when you can have something quite as good in the safety and comfort of this environment."

"You're not eager for a re-enactment of last night, I take it?"

"What? Oh, _that_ fiasco? No, indeed! I think we should leave the small-time criminals in the capable hands of the police."

Reese chuckled – a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers up Finch's spine. Partly to distract himself from the lascivious thoughts that rose, unbidden, to the surface of his mind, Finch added, "I do hope that young man has learned his lesson... He caused quite enough trouble for the hope of a few ill-gained dollars."

"I'm sorry it all snowballed out of control like that," Reese said, suddenly sober. "But there was a method to my madness, you know... I didn't want him stealing our licenses and credit cards, then leaving them where the police could find them. I know you can replace them – and will have to, anyway – but I thought it best not to give Detective Carter and her colleagues a good picture of my face. It could still be identified through facial recognition if they run it through the Agency's database."

Finch nodded, realizing that Reese had considered all of this in the split second before moving into action.

"Of course, John... I trust your judgment implicitly."

"You do?" Reese smiled, his eyes glittering with provocative innuendo.

"Ah... yes. For most things, that is," Finch hedged.

"Not all?"

"Well... I _was_ rather curious... when you mentioned the additional funds that I'd placed in your account for our... contingency plan," Finch said, trying to steer the conversation to less titillating subjects. He had no wish to leave the restaurant with a bulge in his anterior clothing. "You said you might be tempted to spend it all... How exactly might you have spent it?"

"Well, it all depends on my mood at the moment, of course," Reese answered in a matter-of-fact tone, though his eyes continued to dance with mischief. "But I can think of any number of ways to blow a substantial wad of cash... Clothes being an obvious choice, today, since we've both had our... mishaps..." He smirked, making Finch's heart thump with the recollection of their memorable phone conversation. "And of course, my usual favorites: high-tech toys and guns."

"Of course," Finch mumbled.

"Depending on _how_ substantial a wad it is, perhaps some means of transportation as well," Reese continued. "Nothing like a new set of wheels to make a dent in a pocketbook... although here in the City, I would probably opt for something with two wheels over four."

"A motorcycle?" Finch asked, intrigued.

"Yes. Much easier to tail people with, although it's also easier to be spotted by them."

"I'm guessing you're adept at... evading their scrutiny, though?"

"I've been trained," Reese replied modestly. "Whether I'm 'adept' or not is a matter of opinion."

"Very interesting," Finch commented as Liang returned with their dessert.

"So is this, Mr. Crowe," Reese said as he peered into the bowl of cubed almond jelly and fruit.


	21. DELETED Honeymoon

Getting Closer

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	22. DELETED Exercise

Getting Closer

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><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	23. DELETED Conjoined

Getting Closer

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><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	24. DELETED Touch

Getting Closer

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	25. Parley

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Finch decided that Carl's apartment was too dangerous for Reese to attempt breaking into, since it would no doubt be wired with alarms and other surveillance equipment, so instead he directed him to a restaurant that Carl frequented for lunch under most if not all of his many aliases, as evidenced by the GPS tracks left by his multiple cell phones.<p>

"You should get there a good thirty minutes before he usually arrives," Finch said, double-checking the times.

"Which should give me enough time to stake out a table with a good vantage point," Reese finished, knowing exactly what his partner was thinking. He eased the car into the fast lane of the highway before adding, "I'm sorry you can't join me for lunch, Harold."

"As am I, Mr. Reese," Finch answered, trying to keep things somewhat professional. "The crab cakes there are purported to be excellent."

"I'll keep that in mind. Meanwhile, _Harold_, don't think you can skip lunch just because I'm not there – I'm hoping to take care of this business quickly, and as soon as I'm done, I'm coming straight back for you! I don't want you fainting from hunger, as interesting a proposition as that may be..."

It took Finch a moment to recollect his thoughts and say, in a monotone, "Your concern is touching, Mr. Reese, but I'm quite capable of taking care of my own nutritional needs. You should focus on the task at hand before making any plans for celebrating afterwards."

"Of course, Mr. Finch. But you know what they say... 'All work and no play.'"

Finch snorted. "I hardly think we need to worry about _that_, Mr. Reese!"

Reese smirked to himself as he pulled off the highway, then parked around the corner from the restaurant. Since the greeter was away from her post, seating someone else, he took the opportunity to scan the dining area's layout. There was an ideal table in a back corner, shaded by some greenery and an oriental screen.

"I'm sorry for the wait," the greeter said as she came back.

"That's all right. I was wondering if you could put me at the table in the back, there." Reese indicated his cell phone with an apologetic shrug. "I'm expecting a call."

The girl complied and Reese sat with his back to the entrance to hide his face, able to see any newcomers in the reflection of the window. He glanced at a photo of Carl on his cell to refresh his memory, and had just switched to the texting function (thinking to send Harold some risqué messages) when a blonde matron in a crisp, form-fitting suit approached him.

"Welcome to Melda's," she said warmly, although Reese noticed that her green eyes remained cold, calculating. "Is this your first time visiting us?"

"Yes, it is," Reese replied with a perfunctory smile, placing his cell on the table. "But a friend of mine recommended your crab cakes when I told him I'd be in the neighborhood."

"How kind of him," she said, and sat down across from Reese without waiting for an invitation. "We pride ourselves in having the best food this side of Manhattan. _I_ pride myself in remembering all of our customers – especially a handsome man like yourself. You're not dining alone today?"

"Actually, I am... that is, unless you would care to join me," Reese offered, turning on the charm. He knew that he would be less conspicuous with someone else at his table.

"I'd be delighted," the woman purred. "I'm Melda. Imelda Herrmann."

"Ah! So this is _your_ place," Reese said, taking the well-manicured hand she offered and shaking it. "I should have known right away. It's a perfect reflection of you – classy and elegant."

"Oh! You flatter me, Mr.—?"

"Chesterton. But please, call me John," he told her with another winsome smile.

"All right, _John_," she said, her green eyes glittering. "And is there a... _Mrs._ Chesterton?"

"No, but... only because Harold refuses to walk down the aisle with me," Reese confessed, deciding that the woman was too forward for his liking, even to string along for the short duration of lunch. The astonishment in her eyes was genuine, though, so Reese tried to soften the blow by joking, "Of course, if one of us were to take the title 'Missus,' it would probably be _me_ – and I would look _horrible_ in a wedding dress."

Before she had fully recovered, a waiter came by with menus and slipped her something underneath her menu. Reese guessed that it was a Derringer – a pocket pistol, effective enough at close range – just as Finch murmured in his ear, "Imelda Herrmann is Carl Herschel's aunt, and I think you'd look _lovely_ in a wedding dress," in as dry a tone as ever.

"So, what would you recommend for an entrée?" Reese asked smoothly.

"Everything," she answered with a smile that showed off her perfect teeth – shark-like, Reese thought. "It all depends on your mood. If you're feeling adventurous, you could try the Cajun salmon."

"I have to admit, I'm not much of a risk-taker when it comes to food," he responded. "And I _do_ prefer not to have my lunch peppered with bullets."

She stared at him, full-on, for a long moment.

"Who do you work for?" she demanded at last. "FBI?"

"Of course not – the Bureau has no finesse. They would have barged in here, guns blazing, with an army of SWAT guys. I'm a... private contractor." Reese smiled amiably. "The Senator just wants to know that his family is safe."

"Whatever he's paying you, I'll double it," Melda stated without batting her eyelashes.

"You're planning to shake that much out of him?" Reese asked, as nonchalantly as if they were discussing the weather. The tapping of Finch's keyboard in his earpiece had grown louder and faster.

"Not _him_ – you blew Carl's cover quite thoroughly with his idiot son-in-law. But if you're willing to work with us, there are... other projects. Much more profitable ones." She leaned back in her seat, looking relaxed, but still aiming the Derringer at him under the table. "I saw how you swept their house, and how quickly you found the devices. I could use a man like you. Carl has improved over the years, but he's still... green. Imprecise. I would never have hired him if he weren't my own nephew. You, on the other hand, have obviously been well trained. You're... methodical. Thorough. You could train Carl to be better, too."

"That's certainly an interesting... proposition," Reese replied, smirking at the innuendo and cocking one eyebrow as though seriously considering it. "How much would a man with my training be worth to you?"

"A great deal," she smiled. "If you're in it for the long haul, who knows? We could do anything – absolutely anything. The sky's the limit."

"All this and job security, too? That's pretty hard to beat," Reese said mildly.

Finch whispered in his ear, "Carl just pulled into the parking lot."

"In this economy, I should think so. But people with skills – real talent – will always be in demand," Melda was saying. "The important thing is to find the right talent for the right job. And in order to survive, sometimes you have to be willing to... get your hands dirty. I consider myself a survivor, Mr. Chesterton – how about you?"

"I'd like to think so, too, Ms. Herrmann."

"Please, call me Melda."

"Melda," Reese smiled. "I've been in more... sticky situations, shall we call them? – than I care to count, and yet here I am, still defying the odds. I don't believe in luck, but I _do_ believe in stacking the odds in one's favor."

"I like that," she remarked, just as Reese caught the reflection of a man approaching their table.

"Aunt Melda," the man cried with unfeigned warmth as he leaned in to embrace her. "Sorry I'm late – you haven't replaced me with another dinner companion, have you?"

"Of course not, dear – it's just your friend, John Chesterton," she said with a warning look, as Carl turned to see Reese and froze in shock. "I've asked him to join us."

"Hello, Carl," Reese greeted with yet another disarming smile. "I'm sorry I had to hang up on you so abruptly the other day, but I was in the middle of something."

"_You!_ How'd you find..." he gaped, unable to finish the thought.

"It was easy enough, Carl," Reese calmly informed him. "I just tracked all of your cell phones and picked out the hot-spots. I figured you'd come here sooner or later."

"I've accessed the restaurant's security system," Finch breathed into Reese's ear. "I can trip the fire alarm any time you need me to."

"Sit down, Carl," Melda told her nephew. "We were just discussing business. I'm sure a man with John's skill set would be... _invaluable_ to us."

He looked at her incredulously but, seeing the hard glint in her eyes, thought better of disagreeing. Once he was settled in a chair, Melda gave him her menu (which she had not needed, of course), her pistol trained on Reese the whole time.

"So if I'm not in a Cajun mood, should I try the Spinach and Orange Roughy Pie?" Reese asked with aplomb.

"Excellent choice," she purred. "I might have that myself."

The waiter came to take their order and left, plunging them into an awkward silence.

"So," Carl blurted out, "what happened to being my Worst Nightmare?"

"Shush, Carl! Don't be rude," Melda scolded, but Reese only grinned.

"I still _can_ be, Carl – in more ways than you know. But your aunt has just made me a... very _attractive_ offer."

Carl stared at him balefully before asking, "What are you? Some sort of... ex-spy?"

"Something like that," Reese answered. "I do contract work, since I like the variety. Lately, though, I've been working a lot of kidnappings."

"So you're in the same line of business," Carl said, eyes narrowed.

"Not exactly. I'm the one they call when they're told not to contact the police," Reese clarified. "I make sure that the money gets to the right people and that the abductee is brought home safe and sound. For a modest fee, of course." He let his mouth curve up in a sly smile.

"It sounds like we could work very well together," Melda put in, matching Reese's expression. "But how do you gain your clients' trust?"

"Ah! That's a trade secret, don't you think?" Reese chuckled. "I think we each have our own tricks and... methods of persuasion. But a big part of it (for me, anyway) is referrals. If Senator Russwood ever has a friend with a particular type of problem, I'm confident that he would recommend me. You see, I believe in doing good work, because it always leads to _more_ work."

"A man with a solid work ethic," Melda murmured. "How refreshing!"

"So if we set up a similar operation with someone close to the Senator, you can swoop in like a hero and collect your cut," Carl summarized bluntly.

"_And_ ensure that you're not exposed," Reese pointed out. "You've been a little sloppy, Carl – otherwise I wouldn't have found you so easily. I can help you in that area."

The waiter returned with their drinks and crab cakes, interrupting the conversation. Reese noted that Melda hadn't ordered an appetizer, meaning she could still keep one hand on her gun.

_Cautious_, he thought, saying aloud only, "These crab cakes are fantastic! I'm glad my friend told me about them."

"And I'm glad we were able to make your acquaintance, John," Melda responded, raising her glass of Chablis. "Here's to new friends and... mutually profitable business cooperation."

Reese raised his own glass with a smile. "To new friends, and good business."

At a nudge from Melda, Carl raised his with a surly grimace. "To good business."

After clinking their glasses together, Melda continued to observe Reese over the rim of hers as the waiter brought out their entrees.

"I'm curious, John. Just how are you planning to satisfy the Senator?" she finally asked. "Surely he must want some sort of proof that... the threat to his family has been... neutralized."

"That should be easy enough," Reese answered. "I can fabricate another identity for Carl – find some homeless bum that looks enough like him with a bad driver's license photo – and set him up for a similar crime in another state. Then, step back, hang him out to dry, and _voila!_ I can show the Senator that he never has to worry about his family again."

"You can do that?" Carl demanded, showing real interest for the first time as new possibilities began occurring to him.

"As your lovely aunt has noticed, Carl, I have skills," Reese said smugly. "Now, if _you_ were to attempt something similar, you would be playing with _fire_, I'm afraid. You should leave this sort of thing to—"

Right on cue, Finch triggered the restaurant's fire alarm, and all three of them started. The next moment the water sprinklers turned on, dousing everybody and everything (including Melda's Derringer) in a heavy spray of water.


	26. Frostbite

Getting Closer

* * *

><p>Melda had just tucked her pistol under her leg, essentially sitting on it, in order to hold her knife and fork. She was still wary of Reese but knew that she could not go on using only one hand (now that her lunch had been brought out) without looking ridiculous. When the fire alarm went off, she jumped up and instinctively turned to the kitchen.<p>

"Is it an oil fire?" she shouted over the din and commotion to one of her staff.

"We're not sure, ma'am," the girl replied, panic obvious in her eyes. "I didn't see any smoke..."

"Get the customers out to safety," she ordered, heading towards the kitchen herself – her Derringer completely forgotten. "Everybody gets a free lunch voucher for their next visit!"

While Carl trailed after his aunt, Reese grabbed the pistol she had left behind and followed them to the kitchen, combing back his wet hair with his fingers. He had retrieved his cell phone as soon the other two's attention had turned away, keeping the device relatively dry, and now tucked it into an inner pocket for safekeeping.

Although there had been no smoke to start with, once the water had hit the deep-fry vats, the steam created by its contact with hot oil had swamped the kitchen, making it difficult to see. The cooks had managed to open the back door and run out, leaving nobody of whom Melda could demand answers when she stormed in.

"Carl!" Reese shouted over the continued ringing of the alarm as he caught up with the younger man. "Were you followed here?"

"What?" he responded, confused.

"I said, were you _followed_ here?" Reese repeated, even louder, noting out of the corner of his eye that he had gotten Melda's attention as well. "This feels like a Bureau tactic – using a false fire alarm to get us out!"

"You think it's the _FBI?_" she cried, catching on.

"It could be... If _I_ could track Carl, I'm sure _they_ could, too. They might be waiting outside with their guns drawn," Reese said, his eyes dead serious. "Is there another way out of here? A secret tunnel, or at least a way into the sewers?"

"No! Just the front door and two back doors," she answered in horror.

"Do you have a freezer – industrial freezer, with thick walls?"

"Yes, of course..."

"Take cover in it, in case they start shooting," Reese advised. "I'll go out and see if it's the Bureau. If it is, we're all screwed, but if it's not, I'll come back to get you out. Don't worry – I've got your back."

So saying, he returned the Derringer to her – an act of good faith – as well as drawing his own Sig Sauer. Impressed in spite of herself with Reese's efficiency, Melda led Carl to the walk-in freezer on the other side of the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder to see Reese stalking towards the open doorway, gun at the ready. However, as soon as the duo had stepped into the freezer and closed its door, Reese hurried to break into the fire equipment niche, then grabbed the axe and placed its sturdy shaft through the two handles of the doors. Thoroughly wet, Melda and Carl were now trapped (though they did not suspect it yet) inside of the industrial-grade freezer.

Meanwhile, the fire engines' sirens had been growing louder and closer. Reese retrieved Stills' police badge from a hidden pocket in his suit jacket before walking carefully out of the building. As he'd expected, a few local police officers had already arrived and were assessing the situation.

"Detective Carter," Reese introduced himself, holding up the badge and his gun in a non-threatening manner. "There's no fire – false alarm – but I could use your assistance with a wanted felon. His aunt owns the restaurant, and when she figured out that I was here for him, she pulled a gun on me! I managed to trap them in the freezer, but not before her dear nephew triggered the fire alarm in an escape attempt. Can you contact the FBI for me? My cell is fried from getting wet..."

* * *

><p>When the local police chief arrived on the scene, Reese explained everything again, but the man (a regular at the restaurant) was incredulous that Melda could be involved in any criminal activity.<p>

"She's the _brains_ of the outfit," Reese insisted, "and she nearly blew my head off before Carl made a run for it! The FBI has been looking for him for months now. Carl Herschel, a.k.a. Carl Banks, a.k.a. Carl Vogler, _et cetera_, _et cetera_, is wanted for fraud in New Jersey and Massachusetts, not to mention conspiracy and _kidnapping_ charges in Maryland. He recently tried to convince a retired Senator's son-in-law to kidnap his baby daughter for ransom – Senator Russwood has the surveillance devices Carl had planted in his home. I have his number if you'd like to call him..."

There was so much confusion and chaos that the police and firefighters had yet to realize that Reese's timeline of events didn't jive with what the other restaurant clientele and staff were saying, but – believing that Reese was NYPD – they agreed to wait the twenty minutes it would take for the closest FBI agents to arrive before opening the freezer. It helped immensely that the FBI office confirmed Carl Vogler was wanted for fraud and extortion in multiple states.

The firefighters had given Reese a blanket to wrap himself in since his clothes were soaked and the outside temperature far from comfortable. The restaurant workers (and the few lingering customers) had been advised to go home, so the street gradually began to look less like a refugee camp, although some gawkers remained.

"Say, is there a store around here where I can get a change of clothes?" Reese asked a knot of local police officers and firefighters.

"There's one right there," a firefighter told him, pointing down the street. Reese looked at the fancy shop and shook his head.

"On _my_ salary? You gotta be kidding!"

"There's a mall down the highway," a young officer told him over the friendly laughter, "with a Sears, Penney's, and Macy's. Just take the Parkway to US 9 – it's right past the Turnpike."

"Thanks. Can I borrow this?" Reese asked, indicating the blanket.

"Keep it," the firefighter told him with a grin.

So Reese walked to his car and drove off before the FBI agents arrived. When they found out that the detective who had summoned them had gone to purchase dry clothes, they got as much information out of the local police as they could, waited a bit for "Detective Carter" to return, and then decided to open up the freezer and apprehend the two suspects without him.

Melda was still clutching her useless Derringer, but since she pointed it at the agents and officers, she was quickly overpowered and taken into custody. The only problem was that in removing the pistol from her hand, they tore the skin of her palm, to which the wet metal had frozen in the sub-zero temperatures. She was taken to the local hospital for treatment – for her damaged skin as well as frostbite – before being booked for resisting arrest, for starters.

Carl was too miserably cold to put up a fight and was arrested without incident. Having been forewarned as to his many aliases, the agents had come prepared and had no trouble in identifying him as the wanted man. The police chief was left shaking his head in amazement that Melda and her nephew – who had been a part of the community for years – had been running such an extensive criminal operation.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Harold?" Reese asked as he pulled onto the highway. "Have you had lunch yet?"<p>

"No, actually... I'm sorry yours was interrupted, but I can have something ready for you here. If you're coming back _here_, that is..."

"My clothes are there, Harold; and I haven't forgotten my promise to come back for you."

"Ah... Yes, of course. What would you like?"

"I'd like nothing better than to clear your desk of all the monitors and set you up on it instead, then ride your cute little ass until you pass out or beg for mercy, whichever comes first."

There was a slight pause as Finch processed the mental images.

"I meant what would you like for _lunch_, Mr. Reese."

"Oh! That. I don't care, as long as it's something _hot_."

"That can be arranged; my monitors, however, are staying right where they are. It took me a great deal of time and effort to set them up this way."

"Oh, well... at least there are plenty of _other_ desks there..."

After another pause, Finch remarked evenly, "I'll inform Senator Russwood of our progress, Mr. Reese. Drive carefully," and disconnected the call.

* * *

><p>Finch sent an edited version of Reese's conversation with Melda and Carl (which he had recorded over the cell feed) to the FBI as an anonymous tip, in order to provide proof of the woman's role in their schemes. Then he talked to Fred Russwood, who was extremely pleased with their success.<p>

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to know that he's been apprehended," the Senator said with sincerity. "We'll all sleep better tonight, I'm sure! And about your payment, I realize we never went into details, but just send me an invoice. Whatever you charge, it's worth every penny!"

"Thank you, Mr. Russwood, but as you may already have suspected, we're not exactly what can be described as a... _legitimate_ business. I would rather not leave a money trail for the police to follow, if you don't mind."

"I don't _mind_, of course, Harold... but I still want to compensate you for your time. John told me that you're quite wealthy, independently, but if you're doing this sort of thing _pro bono_ for those who can't afford it, I'd like to at least make a contribution to your funds – your war chest, as it were. When I was a lawmaker, I would've been obligated to denounce vigilante justice on a stack of Bibles, but hell – I'm retired now! And I appreciate what you're trying to accomplish. There are some things that conventional law enforcement simply _cannot_ do."

"Well, that's very generous of you, Mr. Russwood... If you really wish to send a... 'contribution,' I can set up a temporary account where you can make a deposit. I'll leave the amount up to you, as frankly, I have no idea what the going rate _is_ for such services."

They shared a laugh at that, and bid their farewells with Finch promising to send the account number and an e-mail address that Russwood could use to contact them again in an emergency. Finch turned the thermostat in the library up a few degrees before walking out to a nearby deli, his stomach growling as it was now well past the noon hour.

"What can I do ya for?" the fat proprietor asked over the glass counter.

"Soup," Finch answered. "I'll take a pint each of the chicken noodle, chicken rice, and beef barley, and... one roast turkey sandwich and one roast beef. Horseradish sauce for the roast beef, please."

"The sandwiches come with cole slaw. You want pickles and chips?"

"Why not," Finch replied, pulling out two crisp bills to pay for his order. It was a rather hefty bag of food that he carried back to the library and (with a sigh of relief) set down on a table.

"Is that all for me?" came Reese's voice from the doorway to the next room. Finch glanced up and gulped, for the taller man was standing there in nothing but his socks.

"I... was hoping that you would be willing to _share_, Mr. Reese," he remarked, tearing his eyes away with some difficulty and missing the devilish grin that spread across Reese's face.

"Well, I suppose I could be _persuaded_," he drawled, turning back into the room to pull out dry underwear from his pilot's case. "The crab cakes were delicious, by the way... too bad the restaurant will probably be closed, now that Melda's arrested."

As Finch set out the food on the table, stacking up some books to make room, he couldn't help but remember Reese's comment about the desk.

_Well... why not? At least it's private_, he thought, knowing that the security system he had installed in the building was tamper-proof.

Aloud, he only asked, "What kind of soup would you like? You're welcome to two..."

* * *

><p>Carter was surprised to receive a phone call from an FBI agent, but the agent was absolutely <em>flabbergasted <em>when she claimed to be Detective Carter.

"Is there another Detective Carter?" he checked.

"None in _this_ precinct," she replied.

"Well... damn! This was the number he gave the local LEOs, too... Uh... I'm looking for the tall guy that just collared a wanted felon in a restaurant in Newark. They said he just ran out to the mall to get some dry clothes..."

"Tall guy? Wearing a suit?" she demanded.

"Yeah! You know him?"

With a sigh, she pulled out her notepad. "Yeah, I know him. Long story. Where in Newark are you?"


	27. DELETED Fetish

Getting Closer

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><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


	28. DELETED Finish

Getting Closer

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><p>This chapter did not comply with FanFiction dot net's content policy and has been deleted. Please read this story in its entirety at my new website, TheaNishimori dot WordPress dot com.<p> 


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